The Lake
The Lake

2014

 

 

MARCH CONTRIBUTORS

 

Glen Armstrong, Lyndsey Bellosa, Alison Brackenbury, Matt Bryden, Mara Buck,

 Sarah Claypoole, Tony Curtis, CJ Giroux, Jack Houston, Antony Mair, Michael Mark,

Lisa Mullenneaux,  Vincent O'Connor, Antony Owen,

 Gillian Prew, Paul Strohm, Sarah White.

 

 

GLEN ARMSTRONG

 

Lipstick Traces 

 

So that we'll remember the shadowy windows,

so that we'll remember Elvis

all lit up like Christmas lights,

 

duck-tailed hipsters

twirl their heavily tattooed

Betty Page clones around

 

and around.

 

The cow-punks are in attendance

as is the neo-surf faction.

 

And actual Christmas lights

somehow make a dreary December evening

in Detroit even drearier.

 

We're in denial here,

about a lot of things

not just the past.

 

Black pasties the size of silver dollars

screen printed with clean

white Misfits skulls

 

have made their way

into my baby's performance art.

 

She approves of me calling her "baby"

because "babies are strange

and problematic."

 

We kiss against the grain,

and the rain turns to snow.

 

 

Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and his recent work has appeared in Conduit, Digital Americana and Cloudbank

 

                                                                                              



LINDSEY BELLOSA

 

Fertility

 

Honey clouds in the cupboard, its properties

mysterious as sleep, summer, thrum of bees.

My second son is nearly weaned.

 

Nearly. His cries beckon me at sunrise.

Still, I can feel the change. Chambers

of my womb are humming again.

 

Sweeter than sleep, this song clouds my better judgment.

Again, again. The cycle repeats,

predictable as sunrise, and season.

 

The bees hear nothing else. Compulsive,

they fly from the hive. Love sticks;

renews in their waxy cells.

  

Suspension

 

Hush, love, snug

in your snow hut.

 

The crow's call

scratches the sky,

 

the snowflakes float.

They are in no hurry,

 

sweetening the air

with fleeting lullabies.

 

Remains of the day

pile blankly and cold.

 

The sky looks on,

bleak as a stone.

 

Sleep, love, gray air

swallows the snow

 

like notes. It swallows

our voices too.

 

Lindsey Bellosa lives in Syracuse, NY. She has an MA in Writing from the National University of Galway, Ireland and has had poems and short stories published in both Irish and American magazines, webzines and journals. She won the 2012 Red Poppy Review's Summer Poetry Contest. She works as an adjunct English lecturer. Her first chapbook, The Hunger, was recently published with Willet Press.

 

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ALISON BRACKENBURY

 

Crops

 

The roses are in season and

the sweetest is the German rose

whose name I think means happiness,

whose snow breathes June to lips and nose.

July booms in with thunderstorms.

Ask, in their growl, what ageing means:

stiff knees, lost names, a sudden wish

to turn from roses to broad beans.

 

For broad beans are in season and

my mother skinned them, then would cook

her thick white sauce, the fatal fat,

with parsley which my great-aunt took

to munch from rows, threw, torn, still green

into her morning porridge bowl.

She lived past ninety, grew broad beans.

 

I think that they deserve their skins.

I think they do not need a sauce.

I chew upon their glistening curves

as patiently as my old horse.

The pea's white flower, on crossed sticks, leans;

for months, potatoes plump. How short

is the warm season for broad beans.

 

Alison Brackenbury Her latest collection (her eighth) is Then, (Carcanet, 2013). New poems can be read at her website here

 

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MATT BRYDEN

 

Clothes

 

As she enters, her hands

are punched deep into pockets;

they almost meet in the middle.

 

She walks barefoot

over the green tarpaulin,

into our line of sight.

 

I appraise her robe – citron,

rich and finely-made, of a piece

with her cool urban jeans and top.

 

She disrobes and we draw.

After an hour and a half, a frisson

as she stands – is herself

 

as she refastens the robe, then walks

to her screen. And she is in jeans,

holding a cup of tea on the lawn.

 

Three Poems for Jack Kerouac

Ti Jean

 

i

This side of the mountain, resistant pits

of ice crunch under her slippers

as she walks right up. Hair trussed

a sash hangs from her gown.

She pleasures in her body

even as she urinates or is at stool,

and like an apology

 

for sexualising women,

for seeing electricity illuminate the skull,

for lamenting one cannot look

a man in the face

without being considered gay –

while being gay – for issuing

'we are existing in milk,' for the perfect

episode in Mexico with love and loss and sadness,

 

you walk out on deck, feel

the ice beneath your slippers,

as you hold onto the rail this side of the mountain.

 

ii

How you see things as performer and audience,

pay the tribute of thinking man capable of sighing,

of all these women wondering.

 

How you tied Buddhism to a hillside shack,

would have us all jump in beside you.

In a cab, a bohemian

 

compared Dharma Bums to Sergeant Pepper,

On the Road to Revolver

but this is so much nonsense

 

(I can hear you say a word like 'diaper;'

the timbre of your voice, always this sense of audience).

Dharma Bums is understated.

 

iii

A couple of hundred pages into Visions of Cody

a football is kicked across the motorway to catch it.

I would years later belt a ball into the wind

have it pelted back, bouncing past me

at tilt, as a little girl laughed and said do it again,

as her mother sighed at your like like like

you didn't even have to sing.

 

Matt Bryden is an EFL teacher, which has taken him to Tuscany, The Czech Republic and Poland. His first collection, Boxing the Compass, was published in 2013. His pamphlet, Night Porter was a winner of the 2010 Templar Poetry Pamphlet and Collection competition. Visit his website here

 

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MARA BUCK

 

Questions of memory

 

Do men say this and that about

That and this, or is it only women,

 

Women who speak of "This was hers"

And "I remember that was yours,"

 

And "Mother used to"

And "It's been so long?"

 

And do men remember that this spoon fed them

Pureed carrots and will serve to feed

 

Them more pureed pap in years to come,

And do they recognize and do

 

They speak of it to themselves

On a winter morning when

 

The sun slants over the dying

Plant in the blue pot?

 

Do you remember that this was yours

And this was mine and these were ours

 

And now they all, all the spoons and the

Cracked plates and the mugs and those

 

Things of this and that,

Are neither here nor there,

 

But somewhere far different from

Imagining or remembering?

 

Heritage

 

In marmalade is memory

of my father's workworn hands

at the round oak kitchen table

early in the morning,

yellow sunshine on the orange

goodness in the Dundee crock

from which this pen now comes

while all is morning stillness

once again.

 





Mara Buck writes and paints in the Maine woods. She has won awards or been short-listed by the Faulkner Society, the Hackney Awards, Carpe Articulum, Maravillosa, and has been published in Carpe Articulum, Caper, Huffington Post, Orion, Clarke's, Poems For Haiti, Pithead Chapel, Drunken Boat, The Lake, Apocrypha, and others.

 

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SARAH CLAYPOOLE

 

Before the Schoolbus Starts

 

In the room with the broken paneling,

you splintered the coffee table,

slipped splinters under your skin, splinters

everywhere, while I fractured a wrist,

not yours, mine, fractured the tenuous

understanding that these were days

with no consequences, fled through

the uncovered doorway, the hallway

and its threadbare carpeting, out to

a delirious afternoon, disconcerting

in its brightness. I thought that

we'd live in this room forever,

leave our comforters and curl up

under the window, awake at daybreak

to the street's humming lethargy,

the men in suits putting on the coffee,

children with the backpacks,

places we'd lost to each

other, having long since deposited

such functions, left it all behind.

You said you were a monster

and I did not believe you, kissed

the empty above your collarbone,

wrote poems onto your hips,

and all of this because you said

you had seen your own ugly,

because you had tried to bleed

it out, because you had failed.

You never wanted it to be like this,

the house biting into your sides,

too much daylight ahead,

the slatted windowpanes refusing

to close. You told me

you wanted to stop hiding

from yourself, cutting corners

to avoid mirrors, cutting,

contemplating the wan face

reflected by the cereal spoon

far past breakfast time, but you

are a sloppy mathematician,

you did not account for the withdrawal,

for the subtraction of the infinities

you had intended to spend

alone. There are rules

made for such a situation,

I'd like to tell you, some dead white man

mapped this very scenario

far before you even knew you'd live it,

ways to slip you out of this indefinite

form. The house is hazy

like the heated summer horizon,

and I am to choose the method

of my own disintegration: in

or out, it's the same game, still

waking to the howling,

barely sleeping to avoid waking,

barely awake at all, still drifting

through conversations in the

grocery store checkout line,

still the feeling that something

has been cleaned out of me,

that I will not recover. I search

the house for evidence: the cleaving

utensils, the dreamcatchers,

proof that you are collecting me

outside of myself, that I am

not insane, only oblivious.

You watch the cars go by,

hoping one of them will stop

in front, kick in the door, take you

to another house, another girl,

this one arriving empty, so you skip

the rending process, you get

all that you want without

the dirtying of the hands, without

the tremors, the quiet in the house

just before I leave, slamming

the door, taking the french press

but not my clothing, hiding out

to restore myself to factory settings,

peering into roadside ditches

like some part of me was deposited

there. It is always daybreak

in the room with the broken paneling,

always the traipsing children

with their home-made lunches,

always the coffee without sugar,

the cry of cars far away, both of us

nauseous, half-awake, waiting

for the other to speak. Here,

the fireplace no longer works,

and it is never winter, but if you

catch my finger above the heated

water, I will not put it back:

I want to stop scalding myself

on your behalf.

 

Sarah Claypoole writes for upcoming situational comedy, Office Hours. She is working on a short story collection.

 

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TONY CURTIS

 

The Mole and The Cosmos

for Philip McCracken

 

I have taken down

A piece

Of the night sky,

Just for the night.

 

At mole's suggestion

I've put it by the window

Where it looks glorious

Against the mountains.

 

Some say moles are blind,

But it's just that they love

To look at things far away,

                                     Like stars.

 

Sometimes when I step out

To look at the night sky

I have to ask mole

What's what, where's where?

 

And mole, as if he were

A poor country fellow

Naming wildflowers,

Lists off the constellations:

 

Southern Cross, Flying Fox,

Bernice's Hair, Winged Horse,

Great Dog, Water Bearer,

Painter's Easel, Chained Maiden.

 

Mole's deep voice,

Sunk like the roots of a tree,

Sturdy, reassuring—

You just know he's right.

 

 

By The Wood Stove

 

The first icy day of winter.

I am out in the yard

Chopping wood for the fire.

Beyond the hedge

The world has gone grey—

The island is full of sorrows.

 

I look back through the trees,

Through the quiet yellows

Of another November evening.

The woman I love, have always loved,

Stands by our back door.

Above her, the sky is clear blue.

 

On the radio the weatherman

Says there will be storms

By morning. But I don't think so.

And if there is? Well, then we can

Just sit by the wood stove

And talk about the clouds.

 

 

Tony Curtis lives in Dublin, Ireland. His latest book, Pony, was reviewed in the November issue of The Lake.

 

CJ GIROUX 

 

Homecoming (After Andrew Moore's Detroit Disassembled)

 

Ivy, elm entangle, entwine

brick by beam,

from porch to post to peak,

foundation to floor to flashing.

Crawling toward a tired heaven,

blooms munch on mortar.

 

Like briar roses

bit by frost,

patients plagued

by creeping cancers,

books, walls molder,

turn the past to paste,

plaster dust.

 

The abandoned terminal sinks,

leans toward Mexicantown, international waters;

eyes scan sulfur skies;

empty lots blur, the kaleidoscopic gaze

of Mason bees duped

by double vision, blindness,

blight.

 

In some 4 a.m. distance,

a freight train skirts the city;

bleats once, twice, again;

pierces dreams.

The rustbelt calls,

a pause our answer.

 

CJ Giroux is a lifelong resident of Michigan who continues to be inspired by the peninsulas that surround him. Born and raised in the metropolitan Detroit area, he is an assistant professor of English at Saginaw Valley State University.

 

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JACK HOUSTON

 

 

I'm English, or so they say...

after James Berry

 

I've heard people say that I'm an Englishman, yet

I'm not sure I've ever met one,

not sure I'd even know one face-to-face.

If I speak English, it's

no more than a stream over pebbles

or a lark singing at day's break.

People say I dance

like an Englishman, but that's

hardly a compliment is it?

England, to me, is an empty field,

like land enclosed - gone -

my right to lop there lost.

Harnessed, overworked, paid

in grain like any horse;

ancestors were franchise free.

Those who then ruled England's land, hurled

ancestors from it. Never caring to restore us

and so, having sold us and abandoned us,

I can never think of England.

 

Jack Houston works for the Hackney Library service, co-edits Nutshell Magazine (nutshellmagazine.com) and is a member of the London-based radical housing cooperative Breaking Ground (bghc.org.uk). He has previously been published in the Morning Star, Black Lantern (US) and Ink, Sweat & Tears.

 

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ANTONY MAIR

 

 

The Firegrate

 

It's not only the streets, and the haggard crowds,

that bombard the brain with megabytes;

even inside, where the heavy door excludes

the children's yells and the rumbling cars,

 

screens beep and flash, flick signals like flies

blurring the air. In the cellar, though:

darkness, silence and an abandoned grate

that will fit our empty fireplace. Secrets sleep

 

in the curls of its cast iron. We bring it home,

and the imprints rise, unfolding in the heat:

a snatch of laughter; a grieving woman's tears.

Ghosts flicker in the flames of burning logs.

 

Unseen, beyond our warm perimeter,

owls pierce the night with nocturnal eyes.

High overhead the silent galaxies

move to a music we no longer hear.

 

And the pale crowds grow in the deafening streets,

looking for something lost, that's no longer there.

 

Pleas

 

New moon, and the sea swirls jade,

hits the ground with a roar of pain,

runs along the harbour wall like a hound

caged, leaping for attention.

 

In the dance-hall a glitterball

kaleidoscopes shadows on circling couples.

The clockface with its unchanging numerals

hides its ratcheted cogs. The couples turn

 

in a world enclosed by a saxophone.

At night, badgers scuttle down from the hill

to forage in empty yards. The television's boom

drowns even the ash-tree's scream.

 

Antony Mair lives in Hastings, East Sussex. A former commercial lawyer, he has had poems accepted for publication by Ink, Sweat and Tears, Acumen and Agenda. He is currently in the first year of a Creative Writing MA at the University of Lancaster.

 

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MICHAEL MARK

 

Cowboy

 

The darkness made him

so small

when his mother

closed the door

on the days he was bad.

 

No goodnight kiss

for the boy

with lassoing cowboys

on his pajamas.

 

Under the hills of blankets,

holding onto the clacks

of her footsteps -

did she move away?

 

Was her face pressed

to the door,

not hating him?

 

A wild cry rises from

the hurt coyote

inside the boy's chest,

where the moon

waits

for his mother

to kiss him

before it could ever

shine again.

 

Big tree

 

This tree was just too enormous for me to take in this morning

with a trunk of an elephant's width and its varying ash colors,

its countless man-thick branches flexing

and the car sized roots pushing up the walkway.

So I selected a single finger-thin twig

with three gentle bends holding out two green bouquets of

Nefertiti eye shaped leaves and a

dangling strand of infinitesimal seeds

under which the baker took his breakfast at 10:21

and his wife joined him minutes later with her tea

that she held to her small chest.

 

Michael Mark is the author of two books of fiction, Toba and At the Hands of a Thief
(Atheneum). His poetry has appeared and is scheduled to appear in The NY Times, UPAYA, Awakening Consciousness Magazine, Sleet, Empty Mirror, OutsideIn Magazine, Elephant Journal, Everyday Poets, Forge, Angle, and other places. Please follow him @michaelgrow

 

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LISA MULLENNEAUX

 

Deep Inside

 

After he left the army hospital, he floated

above their beds, the terminals,

the ones who'd never leave—

McCarty, a triple amputee,

his skull a crushed melon,

Suarez' cycloptic eye

in its sheath of white gauze,

Rostrovsky and his epileptic fits.

They were all still there

in the waiting room to hell—

limbs that once patrolled and marched

cut into stumps like pork sausages.

 

Above the hum of respirators

and monitors he heard the husk

of throats and tongues without saliva,

a scrape of dead leaves

against an iron grate.

Mostly he smelled fear;

it exhaled from the nostril holes.

It said: they all think I'm gone,

but I'm deep inside.

That's where the action is.

And every flanged gap

of missing body parts asked: What now?

 

Manhattan poet Lisa Mullenneaux has published the collection Painters and Poets (2012) and maintains the ekphrastic art blog www.paintersandpoets.com. Her practice of poetry connects her with the happiest people on the planet. Who could ask for more?

 

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VINCENT O'CONNOR

 

Sestina for my father

 

The night I carried you,

elbows akimbo, rigid, like

Arctic ice, your shirt a surrender,

fluttered as a chastised child.

That night, you just shattered on the bed,

and lay there still till morning.

 

You lay there still all morning,

bar the gurgle that gargled from you,

from the single, orthopaedic bed

brought by the district nurse, like

an unwanted guest. You were again that child,

bared of a boyhood, by a body's surrender.

 

But what could I know of surrender,

of knowing your last steps that morning,

of being informed, not as a child,

but finely, precisely, straight at you?

Or were you propped on a pillow, politely, like

a king with an egg in his bed?

 

What thoughts sounded, small in the bed,

foreseeing yet another surrender,

your body stenched, like

this room, turning sweet in the morning?

Was your da in capped vigil beside you,

stealing a look at his child?

 

I can just remember myself as a child.

Half asleep in my own father's bed

I dodged those darts from you,

too tired or stubborn to surrender.

"Just make it to the morning;

we'll do something that both of us like."

 

We never get to do the things we like.

Not you, for sure, as man nor child.

Did doubt surround your morning,

as you were laid out in your bed?

I hope you had passed. The surrender

demanded nothing, twice. But had you,

 

some morning, asked from your bed,

like a stilled dream, how should a child

surrender? I only whisper, I carried you.

 

Vincent O'Connor is originally from Kilfinane, Co. Limerick, Ireland. Having lived and worked in Spain and Japan, he now lives in Cork with his wife and two kids. His poems have appeared, or are upcoming, in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Penny Dreadful, The Puffin Review, Bones, Acorn, and The Asahi Shimbun.

 

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ANTONY OWEN

 

After the Mastiff

 

All it took was whites removed from colours,

wind ripping her arms from the line,

a dog barking at a dog barking.

~

All it took was her daughter dancing from pegs,

ballet shoes wound a music box of rain,

one last dance dripped from tiptoes.

~

All it took were bouquets stuffed through railings,

the chill of a sunflower's flame,

burnt offerings, embers of a calyx.

~

All it took was a latch from another world,

the cowering cloth scrunched in a ball,

dog and daughter tied from Mother's cord.

 

Cold Storage

 

I have journeyed Hull through Venetian blinds,

felt Louisiana jazz sieved through elevators,

smelt fields of sprayed lavender on floor nineteen.

I am filed in Milton Keynes under miscellaneous.

~

I have poured voyages of ships through crucibles,

watched moon roll clams for gulls and migrants,

saved my whole life for a whole life with Niamh.

I poured her in the sea en-route to Wexford.

~

I am flashing before you on a memory stick,

our lives are briefly connected and then.

We shut down in the machine.

 

Antony Owen is from Coventry and is credited with two poetry collections since 2009, My Father's Eyes Were Blue (Heaventree Press) The Dreaded Boy (Pighog). Owen was awarded a poetry completion finalist by The Wilfred Owen Story and in 2013 had an exhibition feature at The Hiroshima Peace Museum.

 

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GILLIAN PREW

 

Factory

Droop-eye, me, lodged in a hole/all my sisters weightless now.

White, their gums, from blood-loss/their lost lowing high blue.

My one whole hoof shod with shit/my best bone a blade.

Clamped to the carousel with its thieving cups/its horror/my udder

droops milk for a week of babies. Fucked and forced with this life/

this breaking will hooked in the end in a concrete bowl of slaughters.

Shoved with drugs my blood is still mine/still flows in the green country.

What is this penance I have been set?/this unholy torture prized

from the bloody human hand and visited upon my sides. Sore, I am/

clamped here with misery/with a hell of bars biting about my head.

 

Pigs

after Les Murray

 

Us all on sorrow cemetery we.

Not warmed with gloss nor glutting sun

under that prize the light is tied to.

No fascist-shoehorn in our guts to make us sore

back then when world was us.

We dipped our good sides in the cool mud.

Us all free then our sung-out grunts. Bloomed/

our ballads bit the trees

and carried down the sheets of rivers.

Coughed lungs sometimes but rich with all we were.

Growing and growing/bedding our squealed litters

with sound no ticking clock/no death-knell.

Wounds sometimes from the edge of living

not blade or punch or swinging hook.

Not the bleeding screams beyond the wall.

Sliced pink our one-life/our gone-forever gifts

here where world's flung upside down.

 

Farewell from a Farm Animal

 

Kill, they would not say, but do/

their ruin-reeked poles full of electricity.

Stun-burn gleams rose-shaped. Nose

of red rivers and the fill in my throat. Ears whine

like a lost signal. My friend of barely a season

with his pale-eyed pain holds his guts in/

his death nailed to the concrete.

 

Born Stirling, Scotland in 1966, Gillian Prew studied Philosophy at The University of Glasgow from 1984-1988. Her collection, Throst Full of Graves, is newly released from Lapwing Publications in 2013 . Her poems have been published widely online and in print, including Vayavya, The Poetry Shed, And Other Poems, The Open Mouse, Ink, Sweat & Tears, 'ditch', and From Glasgow to Saturn. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and has twice been short-listed for the erbacce-prize. She currently lives in Argyll, Scotland. You can find her online at http://gillianprew.com/

 

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PAUL STROHM 

 

We All Complied

 

Life always starts with the arrival of paper.

I got a piece of that paper mailed to me.

The Government needed me immediately.

I did comply. I boarded a bus and disappeared.

Whatever I was before was stripped off me.

Strange but the first things they wanted, i.e.,

"Your drugs, your pornography and all your weapons!"

I looked in my wallet, checked my bag. I did comply.

They put me and a bunch of guys in a cattle trailer,

taking us somewhere we had never been before.

Sergeants screamed and yelled; we were fags and ladies.

No point in denying charges leveled against all.

I stuck my chin out to witness my own humiliation.

Nothing was very complex, authority circled you,

and you complied. Getting up, running, endless pushups

and the fuck word your constant companions.

Our fatigues stunk of sweat like grass in a compost pile.

The body joined the mind to rot the Army way.

No big deal for anyone. Boys are broken into men.

Initiation rites finished, we residue were photographed,

60 dress green uniforms, one size fits most. One hat to wear.

I kept my photograph. It's in a new wallet. Not needed now.

They said go East young soldier and I did.

Learning a craft doesn't take place in school. You do it.

The killing lesson was easy, the staying alive lesson hard.

Everything was either very fast or terribly slow;

we had all the drugs, sex and weapons needed.

I imagine this is strange to you but it's absolutely true.

I did. He did. You did. We all complied!

 

Paul Strohm is a free lance journalist working in Houston, Texas. His most recent poem "Dimple Dell Davis" resides at HuKmag.com. Other poems have been published in the Deep Water Literary Journal, the Berkeley Poets Cooperative, and WiND.

 

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SARAH WHITE 

 

Atlas of Objects, Verbs, and Voices

 

The laws of Intransitive City:

 

They let you be.

They don't let you have.

 

You can come

but you can't bring a friend.

 

You can go up.

You can descend

 

but your stuff

has to stay in the room.

 

You can run

as far as you want.

 

You can sing. Only don't sing a song.

Speak. Only don't say a thing.

 

***

 

The Consignment Office

 

It teems with toys,

trinkets, coins, tickets

spilled from the pockets

of tourists, who check their objects

and seldom return to claim them.

 

The children they leave

are kept for a week,

then assigned to foster homes

in neighboring counties.

No one returns

to pick them up.

Parents thrive on life

with nothing to lose,

nothing to take to heart.

 

***

 

Suburban Scene

 

Passive on a patio,

curls riffled,

coverlet stirred

by the winds,

 

no word in her mind,

speech and its parts

unlearned,passion

 

yet to be undergone,

an infant, wakened

when...

 

***

 

Tale of the Transitive Woman:

 

I have, don't have,

have had, would have,

had had

two sons. One day,

they took off their clothes

and, naked as Saint Francis,

moved to a monastery.

They beg me to join them

in poverty, but I plan to keep

all I have harvested, painted,

written—EARNED,

including my dearest

possession—a mortal disease

whose numerous symptoms require

a different physician for each.

 

Soon I will call my children. They'll come

and carry me up the Holy Mountain

where mothers and grandmothers go.

 

As the brothers descend alone

it will snow.

 

Sarah White lives, writes and paints in Manhattan. She is the author of Alice and Ages (BlazeVox, 2010), a book of variations; Cleopatra Haunts the Hudson (Spuyten Duyvil, 2007), a poetry collection; Mrs. Bliss and the Paper Spouses, (Pudding House, 2007), a chapbook. Her website is www. sarahwhitepages.com

 

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NEWS

 

*The next issue will be published in May*

 

New email address: poetry@thelakepoetry.co.uk

It's not easy getting a book or pamphlet accepted for review these days. So in addition to the regular review section, the One Poem Review feature will allow more poets' to reach a wider audience - one poem featured from a new book/pamphlet along with a cover JPG and a link to the publisher's website. Contact the editor if you have released a book/pamphlet in the last twelve months or expect to have one published.

Reviewed in this issue