Tag Archives: poetry

How do you know when you’re ready?

Last week I presented a project that seemed unlikely to exist and equally unlikely to succeed, but it managed to do both.  It was a live poetry performance called Mirrors.  In spite of the simple title, every time I tried … Continue reading

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Armageddon Blues

I am happy to see my poem, Armageddon Blues, in the winter issue of Salamander.   The poem is full of irony and tenderness for the challenges of everyday life in times of siege. The unthinkable seems to suck all … Continue reading

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The New on my Sleeve

  In spite of my jaded self, wearing Ecclesiastes as a badge sewn onto velvet sleeves, I laugh. The sky knows no calendar.  It doesn’t give a whiff for New Years. But damn, those clouds, puffed sweetly across the sky … Continue reading

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Lucie Brock-Broido, Teenage Poetess

  I’m grieving for Lucie Brock-Broido, the poet who died yesterday. We grew up across a street from each other in Pittsburgh. It was a cobblestone lane, really, enchanted like much of her poetry. From her teenage years, she was … Continue reading

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Snow Shoes (The Right Stuff)

I imagined an old-fashioned thatch — bamboo, birch, cat gut – a magic, organic weave of the kind that keeps our lives from sinking. We fitted our new shoes, meshed now in high-tech plastic, then went thrashing in deep snow. … Continue reading

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How I Learned to Love the Bomb Cyclone

The Shape of Snow Needlepoint of snow in the streetlight cross stitches in the gusting wind. Cars begin to disappear, the nearby elms fade in the distance. By the shore, four sharks roll up, bone dead, though a dog learns … Continue reading

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In Crisis: Poignancy

  In Crisis: Poignancy Attempt emergency resuscitation: it lays on a pyre of fighting words, gasping and fluttering. The lilting head of a blue hydrangea thick and petalled, thinking. Even brooding is old-fashioned. Bludgeon me with your compassion. Shout it … Continue reading

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Flute Music of September

    Flute Music of September Welcome back, self, after a most social August.  My espadrilles are mercifully silent on the brick the soft rope and rubber sole help me hear the cleansing flute music of September. I’m eavesdropping on … Continue reading

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Back from Poets’ Camp

Back from Poets’ Camp   At poets’ camp, I wrote, I thought and read and took the fullness as the world.  Then I returned. Real life! So double, Magnficent in its archly grinning way;  the things we touch amidst the … Continue reading

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The Disruption of Beauty

“There is a time to break down, and a time to build up.”  Ecclesiastes, man of the ages, is also man of the hour.  When Francis Picabia painted this picture, he gave it an absurd name – Estanonisi – but … Continue reading

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