Poet's Ink Review

June 2008

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Birth of love

Ours began barefoot, as
things should –

heels and toes muscling the
mud, tendering their
own shy imprints like
fishbones in shale, blacker
than black.

Cries were uttered,
too – life howling through
gaping holes, and
arms and legs shuddered
lightning-shocked. Eyelids
parted to admit only
as much light as eyes
could bear.

After the frenzy –
quiet, light lightly, breath;
bodies gone slack and
heads rolled back to reveal
not even the trace of a
smile. Only the

wonder,

the wonder,

the perfect hollow round
of disbelief.

Kim Triedman

Kim was named a finalist for the 2007 Philbrick Poetry Award and has had work accepted by the following publications: The Aurorean, The New Writer, Byline Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Monthly, Current Accounts, and Ghoti Magazine. One of her recent poems was selected by John Ashbery to be included in the Ashbery Resource Center’s online archive of Ashbery's work and work by artists directly influenced by Ashbery.

This Morning

We don’t see sun very much.
But this morning,
I saw it.
Its rays of light shine through the clouds,
Creating massive spotlights.
It’s like the heavens opened up,
For one brisk moment.

Leah Clemsen

Leah is fifteen years old and a student at Tahoma Junior High School in Maple Valley, Washington. She is a promising new poet.

Another

He’s still asleep.
I brought him home last night.
He came in the bar,
killing time same as me.
Reminded me of John Travolta
and that Dr. McSexy on TV.
We didn’t talk much,
just danced a little,
just sort of fell in together,
so I thought, What’s to lose?
You know how it is:
you want to take a guy home,
have him next to you,
even just to hear him breathe.
The sex was okay,
nothing special.
He didn’t talk.
I like it that way.
Time doesn’t matter in the dark.
You close your eyes,
you’re where you want to be.

Now he’s here.
It’s like it is with the other guys:
daylight a strip of gray below the shade,
traffic an argument I hope he sleeps through.
If he’s like the others,
he won’t.
Shower, see you later.

At least he stayed the night.
At least I held him for awhile.

John T. Hitchner

John teaches Coming of Age in War and Peace at Keene State College, in Keene, New Hampshire. His work has been published in several journals, including The Aurorean, Clark Street Review, and Hidden Oak.

I Love You

For years, my daughter has rehearsed those words
with me, her father, three grandparents, a cat. Now
she can say them perfectly on her cell phone
to the teenage boy she meets each day at school.
In the lunch room they trade secrets, share fresh laughter
over the old stale cautions of teachers and parents:
Calm down. Pay attention to what you’re doing.

She doesn’t yet know how quickly love can leave, spilled
like water from a glass knocked over on a table.
She hasn’t yet learned how to say, It’s my fault.
She hears me practice those words at home,
repeating them to a husband, a best friend, a cat,
offering them now to an only daughter:
Darling, it’s my fault you are here, falling
for the first time. Falling so hard.

Therese Broderick

Therese is a freelance poet and teacher residing in Albany, New York, with her husband and daughter. Her publication credits include Poet Lore, Spoon River Poetry Review, Puerto Del Sol, and The Louisville Review. Visit her "Ekphrasis" blog at poetryaboutart.wordpress.com.

After You've Gone

An unfinished game
of checkers, cigar and
cup of coffee are still
there after you've gone
as if teasing me, knowing
I wanted to see you but
again even after a year
you avoid seeing me.
I think of leaving a note
if only you'd answer me.
Like the laurel remem-
bering its song in the
dark you've become
a mystery and, never
knowing when you're
going to appear, I wait
and call you in the spring
but you are never there
on the island or with
your daughter. It's always
your answering machine.
When June comes it will
be a whole year and all
I will have are memories
of you flying away like
feathers that once lay
in the boat of my hands.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Bobbi is an archivist, secretary, and a poet, whose work has appeared in places such as Shemom, Mystical Rose, Autumn Leaves, Common Threads, and The Shepherd. Bobbi’s latest book of poetry, The Quiet Scent Of Jasmine, is now available at ebooksonthe.net.

Valentine

He asked
“Where is your innocence?”
She tried to remember.

He saw red.
His anger roared through the kitchen.

She crawled to the other side of midnight
collecting bracelets of blood.

Rose tattoos scattered petals
amidst ruby fragments,
remnants from the first rose
he put on her arm.

Petals from dozens more
wilt on bridges
after being trampled

into heart pulp
by crimson shoes
that cannot carry her far enough away.

She wants to hear wine pouring.
She longs for a white knight.

She wants to see other than bloodshot
memories from those first stained sheets.

Diane Klammer

Diane’s work has appeared in a number of publications, including The San Fernando Poetry Journal, Poet’s Art, Palos Verdes Review, and Poetic Hours. While working as a biology teacher and a mental health counselor, she was fortunate to teach and publish the poetry of the mentally ill and children. She currently sings for the elderly and teaches as a naturalist for Boulder County Open Space.

Summer Dragonfles

Above our canoe
Sapphires, rubies, emeralds –
Summer dragonflies
As I read you poetry
You trail fingers in clouds

E.W. Richardson

E.W. Richardson is a former Marine and Vietnam veteran
and author of “Through Smoked Glass” and “Cascades.”
Raised in Kenton, Ohio, his work can be found in a
variety of print and electronic publications, such as
Ribbons, Mississippi Crow, Niederngasse, California
Quarterly, and Voice Magazine.

Patchwork

Dark brown blood-vessels hold a transparent shield against the world as a white limousine refuels beneath the bright halo of a gas station.
Automobiles shift their anxious nerves across the pavement and a Wednesday disappears into a century that will never remember its name.
The exhausted eyes of passengers stare straight ahead like the wick of an extinguished candle and beneath that fragile current a company of memories dance.
Her hair is concealed beneath a thick knit cap as her head, resting like a broken matchstick, finds comfort in the embrace of her soiled suitcase.
Streetlights swallow one another and the night drifts calmly on the spine of a winter’s voice.
She moves with the tempo of a rusted mechanism, dirty fingers clutching the vestiges of her dignity.
To an audience that would deny her existence she offers blessings
and that is the silent magic of royalty,
to be without a throne, but to retain practiced etiquette.
The last stop arrives quickly like a slip of the tongue,
delivering her into a concrete palace,
depositing her into the palm of midnight.

Bryan Huizi

Bryan is a former skateboarder living in Portland, Oregan, pursuing musical aspirations as well as graphic design. Raised in Europe where his military father was stationed, he has been influenced by the poetry of Raymond Carver and Jim Carroll.

Leukemia

Katie’s on a swing, one hand
holding her head,
tiny golden fingers threaded
through a wig the color of my hair.
She’s named all of her dolls after me,
something that lives on,
my most serious kindergarten lesson.
In the word friendship this scene plays—the swing
sways,
fingers loosen, disentangle, grip solid chains,
anchor her between earth and sky,
and for one moment
I see dark brown birds flying up
leaving her beautiful bald head naked.

Angela D. Manning

Angela spends her time helping students with their writing and appreciation of literature. When she’s not teaching, she enjoys art, traveling, and chocolate. Angela’s poem, “Ode to Crushed Leaves,” was published in Writers Notes, issue # 6, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

The Forest

Walking through the woods
Sunlight shining between branches
Reflects on the moss of the trees

I step silently
So as not to disturb the creatures
Who call the forest home

I feel at home
As leaves crunch softly underfoot
The forest welcomes everyone

Emily Pierre

At 15, Emily is a promising new poet.

Water and Thirst

It was a dream about thirst and water,
numbers counted and conversations

were kept private.
It was a dream about water and thirst,

where forgiveness was the consequence
and acceptance the effect.

It was a dream about thirst and water,
everyone knew the meaning

of water, but no one understood
the meaning of thirst.

Sergio Ortiz

Sergio grew up in Chicago, studied English literature at Inter-American University in San German, Puerto Rico, philosophy at World University, and Culinary Art at The Restaurant School in Philadelphia. His work has been published in POUI: The Cave and Origami Condom. He is pending publication in Flutter, Ascent Aspirations, and Children, Churches and Daddies.

Kingdom from the Porch

I grab a sweater, step out the front door,
the porch swing whistles for my backside.
Forward and back, forward and back,
savoring the leftover scent of a cooling grille . . .

I survey my yard like a tree commands terrain,
a view painted from a palette of green and gold.
Leaves lay down on the job, blanket the ground
and cover the lawn which should have been cut.
Ornamental grass sways in a brisk breeze
as the lazy leaves tumble over their resting place.
Wind chimes discreetly announce their presence
as ceiling fans rest from a long summer’s work.
An empty pot yearns for long-gone petunias,
looking embarrassed, lonely in its emptiness.
Finches congregate and communicate
to plan their escape from impending cold.

Treasuring a kingdom bestowed by Creation,
I am joyful for solitude, grateful for seclusion.

Karin M. Taney

Karin’s work has appeared in Simple Joy, Lucidity Poetry Journal, and WestWard Quarterly.

The Last Fine Days of the Flu

I walk in from the heat
your screen door always open to me
a paper bag sleeping under my arm.

even with the fever and scratchy throat
your lips curl into a smile
so happy to see the novels I’ve brought.

voice like Ella they used to say,
a sweetness you can't beat down
but you can take away with you.

but they never saw you driving,
brow knit, dressed in dirty overalls
sipping warm root beer and scowling

angry and confused, red and a little blue.
I couldn't talk you down from that mood
and only pure malice got you through.

yet here you are
content in an old T-shirt
with phrases we can no longer understand.

such an odd attraction, seeing you here
ginger ale and ruddy cheeks
your sister cooking macaroni in the kitchen.

perhaps this is the time I like you best
even though the flu has made you weak;
sit down on the couch, squeeze your shoulder,

proud that I’m the only one
you let see you like this,
a smile and a bloom of fever on your cheeks.

David Waite

David is a graduate of the Master of Fine Arts program from Goddard College. He has recently been published in the journals Bellowing Ark and Small Brushes.

Floating Distances

How long it has taken him to remember being
nine-years-old and lying on his back in his father’s

soybean field. A faint rain spilling from the darkness
as though holding him against the earth, as though,

were it to stop, he might be lifted through the clouds
and impaled against a jagged shank of star.

Surely he was the one and not his father flung
that August from the planet. Left to discover

the way the bones of a body can seem to press
through the skin and rise into the night’s swirling ache.

The way the rain can fall against your face and chest
as though a great void is seeping from the sky.

Doug Ramspeck

Doug directs the Writing Center and teaches creative writing and composition at The Ohio State University at Lima. His poems have appeared in journals that include West Branch, Connecticut Review, Nimrod, Hunger Mountain, and Seneca Review. His poetry collection, Black Tupelo Country, was selected for the 2007 John Ciardi Prize for Poetry and will be published by BkMk Press (University of Missouri-Kansas City) in the fall of 2008. He lives in Lima with his wife, Beth, and their daughter, Lee.

Across Utah

how twisted the trees
as if the wind blew them
out of shape
like a cartoon bird

the sand
bare as letters I didn’t write
as the ones whose job it was to reply

funny how the landscape finds you
how lizards hum across the dunes
like clocks unwinding
and the few trees
hunch their shoulders
like dead rubber plants
in dead kitchens

strange how a son left for school
and never came back
just the lunch you gave him
scattered like leaves
and the rooms that clanged heartlessly
with absence

so many I hurt
so many rocks
that found their way
onto the asphalt
as if to know the heartlessness
of tires

the more I drive
across the emptiness
the more I wonder how people fit into all this
as if my face
surfacing in the rear view mirror
is a snag in the solution

John Grey

John has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review, and The Pedestal, and has work upcoming in Poetry East and Cape Rock .


Please visit April's poetry page here.