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Photo by Dan D’Ippolito[/caption]
Gary Lawless, who was awarded the 2017 Constance H. Carlson Public Humanities Prize
, has long worked to bring poetry and the creative process to the people of Maine.
Follow Gary as he shares poetry from Mainers of all backgrounds. Poems will be released monthly in Notes from an Open Book, the MHC's e-newsletter, and collected below.
March, 2019 - Lily-Rebecca Mitchell
"Lily-Rebecca Mitchell is nine years old and lives in Lincoln, Maine, with her parents and four siblings. She is a champion loon caller, a lover of animals, and wants to be a military vet and astronaut when she grows up. These poems are from her poetry collection called Family."
I love the library
I love the library
I love the library
when we are there
I love the library
You love the library
I love the library
We all love the library
I love the wind that blows through the trees
I love the pretty flowers, they smell oh so fresh
I love the river
I love all the life in the World
February, 2019 - Eero Ruuttila
"Eero Ruuttila is a poet, photographer, and farmer living in Morrill. He guest edited the recent Winter 2019 issue of The Café Review."
Hojos de La Pastora
in memory of Richard Evans Schultes
Sitting with plants the air begins to change.
I don’t see Spirits I see molecules
beans feed squash
atmosphere charges seed.
nails let go
barn falls down.
or it rains again
& the toilet bowl fills.
along cultivated fields children who come
they play with it.
a man dead 3 days
he revives immediately when leaves
the leaves are laid on him.
January, 2019 - Linda Buckmaster
"We begin the New Year at ground level, with this poem from Linda Buckmaster, former poet laureate of Belfast. Her new hybrid memoir Space Heart- A Memoir in Stages was released in November of 2018." – Gary Lawless
(After Dudley Zopp’s Geologics
It’s much quieter now. Boulders lie peacefully. A gentle wash of slate litters the hillside. Tree roots caress granite outcrops like old lovers, while igneous and metamorphic sleep together in erratic lineage, allowing lichen decades to creep across their backs. Lumpy ridges, glacial till dotted with ponds and marshes, eroded roots of volcanic chains -- permeable or impermeable, but all waiting for exactly nothing.
Dappled across each individual stone, and together spread out in pattern, speckled tableau, three shades of gray, maybe a pink, some brown or tan—dappled memory.
Throw them farther, farther, each satisfying plunk or plink its own music, song of boys and the bored, the nervous conversation, the rocky frustration. Throw another stone, a composition complete and pleasing.
What stories laid here, this northern wall fitted to keep out or in some something, or maybe just to get the damn things out of the way, or maybe no stories at all, only the stony work of hard silence.
Go deep enough, you run into a stone.
We didn’t have stones there. Florida sand, coral reef, coquina rock, limestone not too far beneath the surface: porous, all porous. Something was missing.
So basic. So useful. So often in the way.
Every spring a new crop, winter gifts, glacial rubble, tumble and heave.
December, 2018 - Julia Bouwsma
“This month’s poem comes from Julia Bouwsma’s book Midden – a collection of poems rising out of the historical account of Malaga Island, Maine. Julia Bouwsma is book review editor for Connotations Press and Library Director for Webster Library in Kingfield, Maine.” – Gary Lawless
I Walk My Road At Dusk
"The hour of metamorphoses, when people half hope, half fear that a dog will become a wolf." - Jean Genet, Prisoner of Love
Now is the hour between: light dances
animal-eyed among the trees. Every bending
branch becomes a torso. Every mouth opens
into another running tooth, woods stripped
naked as a fleeing child -
what leaps the downed logs, what sudden antlers
clatter the brush heap?
I walk to the clear cut, discarded
limbs,silvered softwood. I trace
this trail of quartz crystals, vertebrae -
morsels dropped from a torn pocket and blazed
to bone dust.The road curves toward
and away. The road spines
the stone walls. My feet stumble inside
ruts my feet have worn.
All I ever wanted was land: something to press
my fingers into, a flat weight to pin my breath
into the sockets of my hips.
What body doesn’t hide secrets from itself?
I strain to see the path, stones sleeping in the road
like fallen dogs -
the sun drops its animal rush
into my throat, and I call out
to you, the erased, the in-between,
islanders, whose bodies still wear your moment of dusk
as a skin of rusted dirt you cannot
crawl out of, you
touched and turned, tossed by the phantoms
others saw as they gazed from the mainland, the white eye
of the sun falling into the dark mouth where river
meets ocean, a rupture of self
from self, our otherness a shadow that pitches us into
the blue hour from which there is no escape -
the dog rising from its bed of dust
to take the wolf’s heart in its mouth.
November, 2018 - Doug Rawlings
“Doug Rawlings is a poet, teacher, husband and father, peace activist, Vietnam Veteran, and co-founder of Veterans for Peace.” – Gary Lawless
For my son Josh and his best friend David turning thirteen
If 'namvets were ancient shamans
now would be the moment
to give you shelter
from the coming storm
But we are merely
survivors of suburbs and cities
not forest nor mountain
offering you our silences
to guide you going out on your own
Yet we have known for years now
that the silences of our fathers will not do
And we have known that words alone
cannot bleed you free
of your raging doubts
So listen up
to what we have found
between silences and words:
Open up your fists
Watch women move
October, 2018 - Isaac Kinzambi
“Isaac Kinzambi came to Portland, Maine, from Angola in the fall of 2017. This poem is taken from his book The Impossible is Possible and will be included in I Have A Word, an upcoming collection of his poems."
Show Me the Cold
Show me the cold!
I didn’t know what tis all about
as we say “I feel cold” you say “I am cold”.
I didn’t know how cold can hurt
Until I became one of them;
I became homeless among them.
Show me the cold!
Don’t show it to my mother
She always fancies winters abroad,
she doesn’t know how it hurts her son.
Because she said “send me the snowy pictures”,
Then I slide, falling upon it and broke my screen;
I became homeless, the cold became my blanket
Show me the cold!
Show it to my buddies from the shelters
When we faced the below zero to be heroes,
When Fahrenheit and Celsius became allies,
That moment you need just a cup of survey.
I didn’t know what winter is all about
Until I landed here homeless but not hopeless.
September, 2018 - Mary Dowd
“Mary Dowd is a poet and doctor in southern Maine. This poem comes from her collection “The Heroin Diaries,” a collection of 72 poems published by The Permanente Press and written over a decade of treating people with substance abuse disorders in Maine.”
Their faces are thick and red,
coarsened by drink and weather,
their eyes, wide and wary.
Their hands are rough-cut boards,
their feet unmentionable.
Walls and windows hem them in,
chairs and beds don’t fit.
they can’t live in a house.
Even in winter
they come to the shelter
only on the coldest nights.
Once inside, they start to pace.
They prefer a blue tarp
in the woods,
a sleeping bag
stuffed with newspapers.
It’s the proximity
they can’t abide,
so they keep a steady level
of whiskey in their blood
to keep from lashing out
like tomcats over territory,
over insults misperceived,
over voices saying things
only they can hear.
Whiskey blunts the edge,
the edge of exposure,
the feeling every day
that comes from having
no doors on your heart,
no roof on your mind.
Nothing between you and the sky.
Nothing between you and the dirt.
Nothing between you and the knowledge
your final bed won’t be much different.
Mary Dowd, MD
August, 2018 - John Joyce
"John Joyce passed away this July. He had been an artist at Spindleworks in Brunswick for almost 40 years. He had lived with Down Syndrome for 63 years, but was not defined by it. He was a weaver, painter, sculptor, poet, singer, clown, mime, and a great friend to everyone. John and I created poems together for decades. He loved us all, from the bottom of his heart."
If I could be anyone right now
I would be Stevie Wonder.
he sings good
he plays the piano
he’s got good hair
not really twisted hair but
he’s got black hair
and his whole body is all black.
I can’t remember when his birthday is -
he’s got nice clothes
he writes love songs -
“I just called to say I love you
I just called to say how much I care
I just called to say I love you
and I mean it from the bottom of my heart.”
That’s a real nice song.
And he’s blind.
That wouldn’t bother me.
I’d like to read his mind.
Originally published in “Spindleworks Journey," Spindleworks, 1991
July, 2018 - Elizabeth Coatsworth
"Elizabeth Coatsworth came to Maine in the early 1930s and lived at Chimney Farm in Nobleboro until her death in 1986. During that time she published over 125 books of children’s literature, poetry, adult fiction, and memoir. Here is a poem of hers, for July."
Days when the loons fly
and the farm hands hasten
at their haying, watching the sky
and the fields sway and blanch
to the currents of the wind
and the cowbells sound and die
in the juniper pasture, and the lake
is fanned into darkness
and the women hurry to dry
bright clothes on the line, their skirts whipping,
Days when the swallows fly
and the grapevines are ruffled to white
My soul remembers
It is Maine,
and July -
June, 2018 - Jure Detela, translated by Raymond Miller of Topsham
“Since the fall of the Tower of Babel, we have relied on translators to bring us each other’s stories. Ugly Duckling Presse has just published Moss & Silver – a collection of poems by the late Slovenian poet Jure Detela, translated by Raymond Miller of Topsham, Maine. Here are two sections from that book. Number 18 was first published in the British magazine Poem, and number 19 was first published in the U.S. by Paper Bag”
In quiet music a sleeping head
leans into me and awakens
herds of stars that spray like droplets
as a horse runs across a stream.
Spinning in my thoughts
are valleys laden
with rocks rolling down
with rivers in
May, 2018 - Reza Jalali
“Reza Jalali, a writer and educator, came to Maine as a political refugee. He has published poetry, fiction, plays, children’s books, and non-fiction, and is the online editor for Incomer, a new Maine magazine from Maine’s immigrant communities.”
My Indian Aunt
Call it luck, call it fate
I have known this for a fact
I’m related to a dragonfly
born in Africa
maybe a lizard
seeking, in a Calcutta shantytown
tracing my origin to a bug
was so much fun
until I ate one
at a food-stand in Hong Kong
Eating the crunchy relative,
I felt bad.
That wasn’t the first time.
When a child
I ate fistful of ants
to see if they’d make me fart.
I might be related to the moon
the stars or the loud thunder in the monsoon
I know I’m not alone in this galaxy
I’m connected to the living, the dead, and the in-between
I once saw
taking it easy
listening to the frogs
on a full-moon night
in a forest in South India
We’re in this together
I remember saying to the big creature
She said nothing.
I still can’t figure
if it were just a dream
or the moonshine arak
that made the moon, peering through the open window,
to find me in the dark room
to shake me out of sleep, whispering:
Come out and see the elephant!
She might be your aunt
the moon helped me to find a pair of sandals, wearing a lungi
What a fat aunt, I said at once
Hush! My Child!
Don’t be so rude.
The frogs are singing tonight,
my fat Indian aunt said.
April, 2018 - Zainab Almatwari
“April is National Poetry Month, and we celebrate it with a poem from Zainab Almatwari. Zainab came to Maine from Basrah, Iraq and is a sophomore at Westbrook High School. This poem was first published in the Telling Room’s 2017 anthology, Sparks. On April 10, Zainab will be reading at the State Theater as a part of the Telling Room's Show & Tell: A Literary Spectacular.”
The Transform Plate Between LA and Sacramento
1. Transform Plate
Mrs. Fernald taught us in our Earth Science class
that there are three different kinds of plate tectonics
The transform plate, or the transform fault, is one of the three
That plate is between LA and Sacramento
Where two lands move apart
and the result is a new land
That is what happened to me
2. A Rock and A Hammer
The big rock that was in my way between Iraq and the U.S.
was my grandma
The hardest thing was leaving her behind.
She was the rock
but she was also the hammer
She said:”I trust you. You can do it. Just go.”
3. A Small Fox
I used to be a small fox
I always had that sneaky part of me
that sneaks into the serious one
that part that told me to leave my goals
and do whatever I like to do
but after a while
that building a better life
does not happen by doing whatever I like to do
but by everything I want to do
I can do it like a lion
and go right for what I want
I expect from myself to draw the roads that I want to walk on
all the cars, even the O2 that I breathe
I expect from myself to see, hear, touch, feel, and smell
I feel the reflection of myself as I can touch it
My new self gave me the pen to draw a street
that connects London, LA, Tokyo, and New York
In my fox self
I thought those cities weren’t mine
I thought each city was for its people only
My fox self was like a city in Antarctica
No name, no people, no feelings
My parents pictured me as the recycling of their hopes
but with the goals of a mind independent and trusted
They saw me as the finder not the searcher of their lost moments
but I expect from myself more than people do
High dreams but I believe and I know
that I am going to reach the top
even if I am short
6. The transformation
I left the small fox in my backpack
She was the dictionary of my life
She was my Google Translate and my bad words
She was the hand that touched me through the continents
7. Altitude 39,000 Feet
I came with a heavy mind
full of dreams
goals and thoughts
I thought about the Latin numbers
the Greek government
the top of a triangle
the pictures of the tracks
the scary swarms of bees
I tried not to think about anything
while I was thinking about everything
Everything was pretty important for me
8. The Lion
I love my lion self
even if I close my eyes and walk in the main street
even if I say no while everyone says yes
even if I tell my sister “Don’t talk to me for ten minutes!”
but I come back and give her my favorite highlighter
I love myself
I love me as a lion
March, 2018 - Joseph Coleman
"Our March 2018 poem takes us onto the ice, to the smelt shacks. Author Joseph Coleman is from Augusta, and divides his time between Maine and New York. This poem is from his first book of poems 45 degrees North Latitude. His poetry can be found on his website, where you can hear this poem read by actor Jeff Daniels.”
The frost-heaved road lined
with cord on cord of wood
weaved down to River Bend Smelt-
Camps. The office had a roaring fire;
sixty dollars to fish the tide
in a little tin smelt shack.
An old man held out two packets
of bait; sea-worms sprinkled with seaweed
rolled loosely in wet mud-
stained paper towels.
“The key”, hacked a toothless woman
hunched in a corner, taking deep drags
off a Doral Gold, “is to cut the bait
into tiny pieces; change
the bait when the bait turns white;
change the bait, that’s the key!”
Ignoring her, the old man said,
“Start with two turns up from
the bottom and stagger the lines.
Try one six feet below the ice.
Did you bring a knife to cut the bait?”
“The key is to change the bait”,
the old fish hag cackled.
“Change the bait,change the bait!”
echoed from her corner as we made
our way out onto the ice.
A row of twelve smelt shacks,
with steep peaked tin roofs
and walls of torn black tarpaper,
followed the natural
bend of the river.
At the base of each shack,
hay bales, cut in the golden salt
marshes of late summer,
rotted into relentless mood
shifts of the ice. Pulsing
inside each shack, rusted iron
wood stoves crackled hot
with dry white pine and beech.
Each side of the floor had a trough
of open water, emerald-green
water, like the brackish
water off Porters Landing
in summer – diving deep into
cold black, arching spines
to a sun-shafted surface....
Hung above each trough, a row
of six strings and sharp hooks
wrapped neatly around wooden pegs.
I cut the bait.
Not your dignified earthworms
used for catching brook trout
in the excited waters of early spring,
but filthy mud-worms
from the flats,
with hundreds of squirming legs.
The rusty knife the old man
lent me tore them into small
chunks, squirting blood everywhere.
I baited the tiny hooks,
staggering each one
with different turns
on the pegs.
Drunk men down the way yelled
“Smelts! Smelts on! Smelts on!
they’re runnin’ boys! They’re runnin’!”
followed by hoots and yelps....
but there were no smelts running,
there was no action, there was nothing
but deep booms and moans
from under an aching ice,
bruised ice heaving
from a rising tide,
anxious ice from a nervous
breakup of a tilting earth.
February, 2018 - Spindleworks poets
“February’s poem, a Valentine poem, is a group poem by the poets at Spindleworks, a wonderful community of artists at the Spindleworks workshop and gallery in Brunswick. This poem is from their book ‘Spindleworks Journey’.”
Draw an apartment house
and paint it blue and white.
Give it yellow shutters,
open them and see better.
See the flowers growing.
We give you a yellow parrot
with a green beak singing “Beak! Beak!”
Feel happy with it
and cuddly and warm.
We give you ginger tea
with a little bit of milk.
We give you the Rockettes,
the singing dancers.
We send you to Hawaii
and have you take it easy.
Go swimming with hula dancers,
dance with a mermaid
and wear a straw dress.
Get married! Get married to your honey.
If your honey won’t marry,
go to Hollywood, be a singer,
a singer like Texas Red or Johnny Cash.
We give you a red rose.
January, 2018 - Karin Spitfire
"Karin Spitfire is a poet, dancer, and book artist in Belfast. She currently runs a letterpress studio at Steel House in Rockland. This poem is printed, with permission, from 3 Nations Anthology: Native, Canadian & New England Writers, edited by Valerie Lawson and published by Resolute Bear Press in Robbinston."
I tried to lie on the crumbly
red granite of Passamaquoddy Bay
to listen, to join the great flowing
currents, rip tides, whirlpools,
to embrace the St. Croix,
Cobscook, reversing falls
lean into the curves thru Sipayik,
longed to paddle the grand lakes,
around Motahkomikuk, Spedneck,
undo the arbitrary lines
But the pink granite of Penobscot Bay,
the resonant slow thunk
pulled me back to the high rounded nubs
leapfrogging across it, Schoodic,
Cadillac, Megunticook, my hips
molding more easily around the
archipelago protecting the Passagassawaukeag,
Naskeag and Brooklin, my blade
recognizing the Upper West Branch rills,
Chesuncook, and the long flow
out to Isle au Haut.
December, 2017 - Mike Hicks
"In the early 1990s I spent two years co facilitating, with Julie Johnson, a weekly drop-in writing group at the Preble Street Resource Center in Portland. We published a book of writing from that group, called 'Words from the curbs,' and this poem is from that book."
When Billy turned five and started school
the teacher asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
and these are the things that Billy didn’t say:
I want to be a junky and a dope addict.
I want to get married too young and
beat my children and my wife.
I want to sell my body to perverts
in the park for twenty bucks or crack cocaine.
I want to live on welfare, food stamps,
and be a burden to my fellow man.
I want to beg for quarters
so I can buy some beer.
I want to sleep under bridges
and have young punks call me a bum.
I want to stay in shelters
and slowly go insane.
I want to drink cheap wine
and puke and piss my pants.
I want to eat in dumpsters and soup kitchens
and smoke cigarettes that I find.
I want to be called lazy
and be shunned by so-called gentlemen.
I want to smell of unwashed skin
and grow to hate my fellow man.
I want someone to kill me
for the things that I’ve become.
I want to be called a loser,
a vagrant and a bum.
The things that Billy did say
are irrelevent, because he’s dead,
killed by the hero of the town.
Mike Hicks is a poet and artist, now living in the Pacific Northwest.
November, 2017 - Terry Grasse
Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!
Do you know who I am?
I’m one of your veteran sons.
You sent us to a war
in Vietnam, a war that
could never be won.
Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!
Do you know what I need?
I’m home from the war
but my wounds still bleed.
Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!
I’d be better off dead.
The battles are over,
but rage on in my head.
Uncle Sam! Uncle Sam!
Do you know, do you know
who I am?
Terry Grasse is a visual artist, poet, and a veteran of the Vietnam War. He lives in Lisbon Falls, Maine.
October, 2017 - Robert Gibbons
“Moose was Whale Once,” Said Old John Neptune
"Robert Gibbons is a widely published poet, currently living in Waterville. For twelve years he lived and wrote in Portland where one critic wrote that he was “in the process of sacralizing Portland, lodging it in the imagination of readers, as Williams did for Paterson, Cavafy for Alexandria, Joyce for Dublin.” This poem is taken from his collection “Animated Landscape”, published in 2016 by BlazeVox"
In this way
I’ve been out to sea
the past couple of months
recording imagined travels across
Atlantic, Aegean, Mediterranean, Pacific,
& Adriatic waters, ports as diverse as Heraklion,
Nantucket, Okinawa, Venice, & Boston.
Hard to fathom
the years-long whaling
voyages Ishmael alludes to,
or the five-long years father
spent his youth on military transport.
No, hard as Hell to fathom that.
When I do
it’s the difference
in the scent of distant
ocean, & smell of air above
earth comes strangely to mind.
The longing there. In the distinction.
So it comes as a surprise here
near the end of the Logbook that
Thoreau steps in as a guide back home.
In his posthumous publication, The Maine Woods,
he records a trip up to Old Town, meeting the Penobscot
Governor, eighty-nine-year-old, Old John Neptune,
who recalled when moose were much larger than
in Thoreau’s time, that in fact, according to legend
down near the Merrimack a whale swam in,
& as the tide went out, stranded, the whale
stood up & walked on land, “Moose was
whale once,” said Old John Neptune.
Were I to identify with that
it’s again the distinction of the scent
of the air in the distant sea, for whale
& sailor alike, & air above land for moose
& his trek from the Merrimack, which I’ve trekked
along, & his migration all the way up to the forests of Maine.
I take a deep breath, where both earth and sea air circulate,
give thanks to Thoreau for recording that story,
& guiding me back to Port.
September, 2017 - Mihku Paul
“Mihku is a Maliseet writer and visual artist who grew up on the Penobscot River. This poem is from ‘Look Twice: The Waponaki in Image and Verse’- a one-woman mixed media installation she mounted at the Abbe Museum in 2009. The poem is also included in her book ‘20th Century PowWow Playground.’ A StoneCoast MFA, she lives in the Portland area.”
The Water Road
All journeys begin here, Madawamkeetook, home,
beside the good river, rocky at its mouth.
Stone shards, bone stratum
buried deep, our ancient cenotaph,
Old Meductic Fort, traceless memorial.
on the shores of Wolastoq.
Now St. John.
The naming taken, baptized in ink and parchment.
They say he knew water transformation;
it gives life.
A thousand years and more, we paddled
the Old Meductic Trail; the water road.
Nomads, they called us,
citing “most ancient evidence” of our passage;
“the solid rocks have been furrowed
by the moccasins of the native tribes.”
A signpost, our chalcedony flesh.
Blue veins you call Nature’s highway,
the map flowing inside our bodies,
the Thoroughfare; Chepneticook lakes to
Mattawamkeag and onward to the Penobscot,
where a girl became a woman.
Her body craves the past.
Its water seeking the cool flow, ancestral memory,
where tributaries meet, flooding
undernourished roots that cling to her edges,
eroded year by year with forgetting.
Remember Meductic and the Water Road.
Birch bark, chert and bone melded with riverbank clay,
merging in the rippling shallows where canoes slide,
silent, among water lilies and pickerel grass.
August, 2017 - Ekhlas Ahmed
“Ekhlas Ahmed came to Portland from Darfur at the age of 12. She attended Casco Bay High School and the University of Southern Maine. She now teaches at Casco Bay High School while working on a master’s degree. This poem is from a longer series of poems about her journey.”
It’s quiet in Darfur. It’s not the silence of peace, but it’s the silence of death.
My homes that once carried histories of generations are now burned ashes on the
ground waiting for the wind to blow them to their final destination.
My mothers that were once leaders of their communities are now used as war
My sisters that once had chances to be future leaders are now afraid to see the sun.
So I speak for them.
I speak for the thousand mothers who have been speaking forever but there is no-one
I speak for the thousand girls who want to speak but don’t have a voice.
I speak for the thousand children of Darfur because they can only speak in silence.
I speak so they can be heard.
Because I feel their pain.
When I was a little girl I used to cry
but only in silence
never showing my parents my tears
not even my siblings, or peers
because they told us if you showed people your tears, it meant you were afraid
it meant you were weak, it meant you were powerless
Yes I was young, but I knew I wasn’t weak, and I knew I wasn’t powerless
I had and still have a weapon
A voice that once it’s heard, demands attention
A voice that doesn’t only speak, but repeats
So I will speak so they can be heard.
July, 2017 - Sharif Elmusa
“When Naomi Shihab Nye gave a reading in Augusta in April, she was asked who her current favorite Arabic poet was. Her answer, immediately, was Sharif Elmusa – a poet originally from Palestine, but now from Arrowsic, Maine. Sharif has twice read at Gulf of Maine Books for our ‘Hummus and Poetry’ evenings. He says that I am turning him into a Maine nature poet, and this poem is from a ‘poetry walk’ I lead at Beech Hill Preserve in Rockport.”
As I walked up the path
of Beech Hill Preserve
I kept thinking of the snail of Issa
climbing Mount Fuji,
till a sharp stone warned my left foot
Don't step on me, else you will trip.
As far as the eye could roam the land
was many shades of green
flecked with red and yellow, white and blue,
was countless kinds of trees and shrubs,
pine and oak, spruce and maple,
raspberries, blueberries and honeysuckle;
with their mouths pressed to the ground,
they blossomed and multiplied,
without gadgets, despite the pompous popish names,
Populus grandidentata, Pinus strobus, Quercus prinus.
Lichen is the language of granite,
said the guide.
Only the trunks of trees
seem to grasp this tongue.
This is why I was overjoyed
to hear the whispers of the little wood-lily
I am in full bloom,
therefore I am,
or the fog that crowned our walk
and veiled the lake and mountains
declare, as if it were an oracle
After I lift,
and I lift when I please,
don't think what you SEE
is what you see.
The future stirs where the chipmunk hides
in the secrets it hoards.
Sharif S. Elmusa
First published here and in Mizna: Prose, Poetry and Art Exploring Arab America, vol 17.2.2016
June, 2017 - Kifah Abdulla
Kifah Abdulla is a poet and artist living in Portland, Maine. Originally from Iraq, he served in the Iran-Iraq war and was a prisoner of war for over eight years. This poem comes from that experience. It is reprinted with permission from his book of poems: Dead Still Dream.
I dreamt of a small window
Through it flows clean air
Looking over a blue sky
White clouds travel through it
Flocks of birds pass by like air
I dreamt of a small window
The size of my hand
Overlooking a sea
My eyes travel in it
Into distant waves of blue
The yellow sun comes
Awakening the morning
And the night comes, inlaid with light
A window into which the snow whispers
Suspend in it, the moon and the rain
Into it flow the colors of autumn
And in spring, the fragrant buds
A small window, in which I count
My mornings and my evenings
Nesting in it are my memories
I cultivate in it lush dreams
I dreamt of a small window
The size of my hand
I look from it to see my sweetheart
When she comes from afar
She waves to me
That she is coming soon,
Carrying between the folds of her heart
A small window overlooking
Onto the rest of a new age
I dreamt in a place where
My one and only dream was,
And all that I wished for
Was to have a small window
The size of my hand
May, 2017 - Ellen Flewelling Holt
"This is the first poem in the first anthology of poems I helped put together from Spindleworks in Brunswick. We published that collection in 1991. I really was trying to learn what it was like for an adult not to be able to read, and Ellen (who has passed away since the book came out) helped me to really feel it."
I would like to learn to read.
I know one thing I can’t do. Read.
It’s hard for me when I can’t read.
What would I do if I got lost?
I wouldn’t know where I am.
I wouldn’t know what street I was on.
That’s what I want. I want to learn
so I can read signs.
If I could read, I would know
what the signs say.
I could read a newspaper.
Read a book, read the Bible.
Read a cookbook, recipes in a cookbook.
I could put the right things in the recipe.
Tell what size my clothes are.
What size shoes I wanted.
Maybe if I wanted a teddy bear
I could find out how much it costs
or if I wanted a record
or a blouse.
I could find out when the movies are.
I could do that
if I could read.
Ellen Flewelling Holt
from Spindleworks Journey,
edited by Gary Lawless, published by Spindleworks, 1991