Friday, July 19, 2024

Poetry Letter No. 2, Summer 2024 - Part 2 - Review of Books by Lohrum Cotton, Chandonnet, Mickiewicz, and Kolodji

Hanna Kulenty – “Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 24 -  acrylic on canvas, 2023.

The CSPS Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2024 presented featured Poets Sharmagne Leland-St. John and Mary Torregrossa (published last week on this blog) as well as four book reviews reproduced below. The issue is illustrated with paintings by Polish composer, Hanna Kulenty (www.hannakulenty.com).  More information is in the previous part of the Poetry Letter. 

https://www.californiastatepoetrysociety.com/2024/07/poetry-letter-no-2-of-2024-summer-part.html

MICHAEL ESCOUBAS REVIEWS

ALIGNED WITH THE SKY BY KATHY LOHRUM COTTON

Aligned with the Sky: Poems by Kathy Lohrum Cotton. 77 Poems ~ 4 Illustrations ~ 99 pages poetry.deepwellbooks@gmail.com | ISBN 9798866560677

Recently, I called a plumber to the house to inspect a clogged basement drain. The technician explained to me that my basement drainage system was broken due to age. The couplings holding the pipes together had broken, and consequently, the pipes were out of alignment. After extensive excavation and great expense, I was assured that all the pipes were back in alignment, and henceforth, would be “clog-free.” This incident came to mind, as if on cue, the moment I retrieved Kathy Lohrum Cotton’s latest project from the mailbox. Your reviewer, like the clogged  drain, finds himself in occasional need of a “life-inspection.” A revisiting of priorities, a spiritual “sit-down” to take stock of life and life’s priorities. Aligned with the Sky, arrived at just such a moment.

The work is organized into four interrelated sections: “Aligned with the Sky” (20 poems), “Aligned with Each Other” (18 poems), “Aligned Within” (18 poems),” and “Aligned with Nature” (21 poems). Cotton’s original collage art, which introduces each major division, exercised my mind as I entered each new phase. By “interrelated” I mean that Cotton is not a slave to categories. There is an ease about her work. Subjects and emphases overlap, integrate, touch and go, then return.

Cotton’s cover art depicts, in miniature, the collection’s theme. A girl about 6 years of age is perched on the top step of a ladder. She wears a pilot’s leather headgear, holds a toy airplane as she embraces the vast blue sky. The girl (perhaps the poet herself) isn’t looking for some deep theological or scientific explanation about why things are the way they are. She inhabits a world, her world. She IS the sky. She IS the wind. She IS the billowing clouds and swaying grass.

Titles such as “Where Will You Take Me Now?” “The Heavens,” “Eclipse,” “Night Song,” and “Leaving Like a Star,” spoke to my inner-child:


Hands flung wide, I whirl and twirl,

a six-year-old toppling into

the green margin between

our Lithuanian neighbor’s fence

and Audubon Avenue. Dizzy drunk

on school vacation freedom,

I like sprawled face-up in wild grass,

aligned with a wide blue expanse

crowded with cumulus clouds.

I don’t yet know cumulus

from cirrus or stratus,

but find shifting face-shapes

in the billowy clouds,

give them sky-people names,

and compose little rhymes

metered like Sunday School songs.

 

Such is the beginning

of my life as a poet


The best poets retain vestiges of childlike wonder. “The Heavens” reflects upon Sunday School lessons which depicted heaven in terms of “its mansions and gold-paved streets, / an ever-listening ear to every prayer, / the reunion of departed loved ones.” With that said, an adult Cotton avers, “a poet can still fall speechless / at the sight of / sunrise, sunset, starlight.”

In other poems such as “Rainclouds Over the City,” she shifts from “Today’s leaden sky is heavy / as Monday-morning traffic— / snarled and clogged”  . . . to the rain beckoning “peach blossoms, open petals / of forsythia and blue violets.”

She prays:

So bless this weighted-blanket        
 
drowse of grays and this

sleepy Earth who will awaken

to the music of falling rain,

the percussion of thunder.


“Aligned with Each Other,” flows seamlessly into more complex personal relationships. “Connected” is Cotton’s welcoming poem:


Stars buttoned

to galaxies

 

Sky hinged

to Earth

 

Rivers looped

on mountain hooks

Sunlight braided

with clouds and wind

 

The thread of you

in the fabric of me

 

Everything

connected.


Emotional and spiritual maturity are hallmarks for this poet. To write poetry, poets must protect their quiet time. They must love solitude. Some poets take this too far. For Cotton, however, I sense an down-to-earth life-balance. In “Frayed Edges,” Cotton touches on the complexities of marriage: “No page-turn / heralds a thirty-first night / of one month passing into / the first morning of the next.// And no gap / lies between my frayed seams / and yours. Our edges / are forever tangled together, / beyond unraveling.”

She is sensitive to moments spent with good friends. Such moments are indispensable, as attested to by the sonnet “Fragrant Day”:


From scent to heady scent, we three friends walk

together through a little candle shop,

inhaling tiny samples as we talk

of soy and beeswax, drip and jar. We stop


to breathe-in deeply old familiar scents.

Patchouli, cedar, lilac. Lemongrass,

verbena, lavender. Each represents

a time, a place: the stories we will pass


along while strolling to another store.

We breathe each other in—the fragrant blends

that we had barely recognized before:

bouquet of sisters, confidants, close friends.

 

The mingled scent of us now fills each room

and turns our simple day to sweet perfume.


Your reviewer has only superficially touched upon the treasures contained in Aligned with the Sky. The other sections: “Aligned Within” and “Aligned with Nature,” produced within me equal portions of inspirational wisdom and delight at Kathy Cotton’s mastery of poetic-craft. “Just Because” reveals the spirit of the whole:


Just because it’s today.

Just because a sun

I never touched

touched me

 

and a sky I couldn’t hold

held me

and a love I didn’t understand

understood me.

 

Just because

the sun

and sky

and love

are free

 

I rejoice



Little wonder that Aligned with the Sky won second place in the Illinois State Poetry Society’s prestigious Book of the Year competition, for 2023.

~ Michael Escoubas


MICHAEL ESCOUBASE REVIEWS 

THE SHAPE OF WIND ON WATER BY ANN FOX CHANDONNET

The Shape of Wind on Water: New and Selected Poems by Ann Fox Chandonnet.73 Poems ~ 1 Essay ~ 204 pages | Loom Press | ISBN 978-0-931507-52-6

I remember with great fondness going on fishing trips with my Dad and brothers to Minnesota. (We flatlanders from Illinois have nowhere near the lake selections offered by our neighbor to the north.) Much to the consternation of my Dad, I was less concerned with catching fish than with the remarkable acrobatics of the natural world . . . the way the wind did magical things with water. I was enchanted by waves and whitecaps, swirls and curls, dips and dives that captured my fancy more than landing a three-pound walleye ever could.

I thought about such things as I wrapped my mind around Ann Fox Chandonnet’s The Shape of Wind on Water: New and Selected Poems. An intriguing question began to form as I sat and as I thought: “Is the shape of wind on water to be taken literally or spiritually? Or perhaps a little of both? More on this later.

Structure: “New” poems are gathered under four headings: People, Places, Correspondence and Harvest. “Selected Poems,” are drawn from six of Chandonnet’s previous collections: The Wife & Other Poems (1976), The Wife: Part 2 (1979), Ptarmigan Valley: Poems of Alaska (1980), At the Fruit-Tree’s Mossy Root (1980), Auras, Tendrils (1984), and Canoeing in the Rain (1990).

A Word about The Octopus, An Essay.  Reviewers seldom advise their readers about how to read the books they review. Notwithstanding this cardinal rule, I offer a rare recommendation: Begin at the back of the book. In this captivating essay Chandonnet describes the people, places and experiences that, in her words, “made me, me.” You won’t want to miss the very last entry which explains the octopus.

At the risk of seeming to “run the poet into a corner,” I perceive Chandonnet’s work as being born out of the crucible of the natural world, maturing and evolving into the world of the human spirit. She looks for and finds correspondence between the visible outer world and the inner, invisible world of human experiences. One of her poems, “The Poet as the Letter P: Stevens Requests More Prunes,” sounds like the man himself, writing in tedious detail about prunes: the time of year for them, how much they weigh, how they should look, their numerous uses, and how Elsie, in her peignoir, will enjoy them on Sunday morning. Wallace Stevens excelled at writing poems which merge Nature and Spirit. So does Ann Fox Chandonnet.

Chandonnet is a poet of “people, as well as a poet of “place.” Her fascinating life with roots in Massachusetts (on a dairy farm), Alaska’s rich landscape (34 years), and Wisconsin (where she published her first book), provide a deep well from which she draws her lyrics.

Her lead poem, “Snow Water Under Culverts,” is perfect given the foundation laid above. “Snow Water,” is about her father and begins:


Everything is hard, gray, frozen here,

but in his country snow water trickles in culverts,

caching bits of bone swept from fields,

nutrients hard won—

the first scent of spring (wet dirt),

and the tooth-numbing, palm-tingling ditch draught,

spicules of ice in it still,

refreshing as a McIntosh.


It is as if Chandonnet devotes her opening octave to contours which shape the fascinating man she loves. But he is something of a mystery to the young girl who marvels at what she sees. This poem of 109 lines never flags as the poet merges elements of “her world,” into a profile of devoted love. In poignant lines she pays tribute to a man of few words:


Deeds were Dad’s speech:
his sixteen hours of sweat a day,
his neck eroded into arroyos by weather,
his shoes like Leninist bronzes of shoes,
his shins knobby from cows’ kicks,
the trim body he weighed every morning,
he handsome hands tough as the emery wheel
that honed axes and scythes,
the sound of that wheel,
and the hard water dripping onto it
from a rusty can.

A workman and his tools—

a diligent cathedral mason.


Get a Kleenex ready for Chandonnet’s gentle closure on this one. Moving into “Selected Poems,” a different tone greets me. Drawing from works going back to 1976, we experience the poet as a young wife and mother. These poems resonate in memories of where my wife and I were in the mid-70s. For example, from, “The Wife”:


Sitting on her desire,

which throbbed like an alarm clock,

the wife tried to concentrate on Time.

Or standing on it,

a white square in a ring of black ones

dappling the supermarket produce sale,

artichokes and Muzak tugging at her panties,

she tried to decipher a suddenly meaningless list:

squash,

ammonia,

tuna fish,

nutmeg.


Throughout “Selected Poems,” Ann Chandonnet weaves a fascinating web of life, “as it is,” when Nature and Spirit merge and converge. In “Peas” I hear the pings as they hit the bottom of the bucket:

Sitting on the screened porch,

cane seat cool against the backs

of hot knees,

the crisp crack of green dorsal lines

under thumb,

and the low spreading thunder

of peas

into big aluminum pans.


Is The Shape of Wind on Water to be taken literally or spiritually, or perhaps a little of both? This reviewer trusts his readers to decide. As for your reviewer, his life will never be quite the same again.

~ Michael Escoubas



ZBIGNIEW MIROSŁAWSKI REVIEWS 

SHADES OF EARTH BY ANNA MARIA MICKIEWICZ 

Shades of Earth by Anna Maria Mickiewicz, Great Britain 2024, ISBN:1915819830, 48  pp.

The review of Anna Maria Mickiewicz’s collection of poems is above all, a great pleasure. Shades of Earth contain very delicate poems. As if we entered a shady garden, a garden enchanted by the words of poetry. Dedicating the entire book to the memory of Staś Stan Mickiewicz (the author’s son, who died last year) deepens the mood of silence and careful observation of the existing world, which is difficult to understand and even harder to describe.

A mother struck by this death is always accompanied by reflection. Her world gains another dimension. Desert rain in London, evokes associations not so much with crying but with longing for the rain of salvation, washing the spruces with the wet morning light. It is a reference to the rhythm of nature. Rain is disorienting. So, the question is asked “is it spring or summer?” the answer is simple – “…the desert air blurs my vision.”

Admiring the manuscript from Oxford, we are in old courtyards, among fountains with lavender roses. We see blue mosaics. We read that she stumbles over the voices of angelic Gothic creators, opens deafened spaces, and rises dressed in clouds. The blooming of forsythia is the essence of elasticity, sparkling purple, rustling, and gentle fragrance. The scent of lilac will appear in another text. Camellias are lost in thought... The growth of flowers from bulbs is their birth.

In addition to the changes in nature, the mystery of time is also a motif. There is “alliance with eternity.” A lid is “framed with spider’s threads” and secrets are enchanted in the songs of the blackbird.

Does crying Socrates symbolize the lack of philosophical explanation? In the next poem he is “buried in anxiety.” Are his thoughts hiding in the clouds? Was he afraid of his own investigations? He was in hospital and returned after his heart rhythm was restored. And he has “...a time of sunny space” ahead of him. A reference to the theme of passing of time comes back in the poem entitled The Cedar of Lebanon. The tree provides shelter as it has been spreading out its branches for 250 years. We don’t know who brought and planted it, maybe it was motivated by love and memory?

The idea of shading recurs in several poems in this collection. For example, the barely visible clouds over Regent’s Park, and in Summer in Seaford. Twilight is the trembling of darkness and loneliness of dreams, the gravity of the night causing Icarus to fall.

Fragments of poetic prose about the London rainbow, about the purring of a cat, and a story of the broken heart of the Little Prince offer a different proposition. Likewise, the text entitled “Low pressure in the land of rain lovers.”  The themes already familiar return in a new configuration, bringing out the practical matter-of-factness of the English, and confronting it with the belief in rampaging witches and creatures with huge mouths. The cherry story shows a parallel between the nature and the human emotions. The street of old trees is the subject of granddaughter’s admiration and of grandmother’s anxiety. Cutting down the cherry tree threatens destruction of the beginning of summer.

Poems about Cornwall are pure lyric. Penzance is a port seen at night, drowning in pirate songs and waves of trembling sparks. The Ballad of Penzance describes fringes of the waves that search for survivors and for Tristan and Isolde. Similarly, a poem inspired by a stay in Devon. The waves reflect the silver sky and open the lids of old trunks.

“Still in love with the sun...” reflects author’s own state of mind. There are contrasts between being sealed in the London fog and getting used to breakups. It ends with a doubt, “...do you still love the sun?” The poem “In English Rhythm” has a similar atmosphere. In it, lazy clouds are looking over a rainy country. This is England letting it rain. It is a country of returns, farewells, and of  freedom.

 Finally, there are two poems, about thistle and London jasmine. In the thistle “...We rise, immersed in dew and light...” As the thorn is yesterday’s moan, we run into the abyss of oblivion. Jasmine’s kisses are rough, its flowers are drops of forgotten letters.

P.S. Some poems were translated by Tom Wachtel.     The author is also grateful to two British poets, Steve Rushton and David Clark… 

~ Zbigniew Mirosławski


DEBORAH FIEDLER APRAKU REVIEWS 

VITAL SIGNS BY DEBORAH  P KOLODJI

Vital Signs by Deborah P Kolodji (Cuttlefish Books, 2024), 85 pages.

Vital Signs, by Deborah P Kolodji is a profound and exquisite collection of haiku that chronicles her recent experience with cancer and cancer’s medical treatments. “Profound” seems a big concept that goes against the haiku zeitgeist. An elemental feature of haiku is the way it preserves a fleeting moment in time. I think it is the arc of the series of poems that at its closure leaves the reader with a profound sense of intimacy. Kolodji is a master at capturing the moment. She opens with this tender scrim that welcomes the reader to enter the portal of the haiku zone and signals the start of her journey, and so too our journey herein:

the blush of dawn

through a hospital window

vital signs

The juxtaposition of the beauty of life, which is the essence of the word vital, contrasted with the technology and sometimes poisonous treatment of the disease is at the heart of this book. Each vignette, each look through the window, provides us hope through the pain. As for many cancer patients, this journey is not solitary, though it is lonely. The poems are peopled with doctors and nurses and family members. The hearing loss expressed in one haiku, “my daughter’s voice/turns into ocean” is juxtaposed with another family poem:

wildflowers in bloom

when your children

take care of you

These images of people, being themselves vital, alive with their humanity and vital to the care of the patient, are beautiful miniature portraits. The constant thread in this peregrination are the references to the natural world because, haiku, of course! Kolodji has made it her mission to name the tree, name the flower, name the bird, name the insect, and takes inventory of the medical technologies that are required to test her vital signs. She writes:

rapid growth

of bougainvillea

thorns in my life

I will leave the reader to discover her humorous poems that made me laugh out loud. Like Matsuo Basho, a 17th century Japanese haiku master known for his travel essays, Kolodji documents this long cancer journey, however short the poems are. It’s not just the images but the minimalist wording that gives the whole of the book, and the whole of the poet, strength for the journey. If you can believe that “unresolved issues are the black hole in the center of our galaxy,” you can believe that all these finely crafted haiku are vital signs to all of us. We, like the Condor on the cover of the book, are “not yet extinct.” `

~ Deborah Fiedler Apraku

 



The Poetry Letter ((Online ISSN 2836-9394; Print ISSN 2836-9408) is a quarterly electronic publication, issued by the California State Poetry Society. Edited by Maja Trochimczyk since 2020 and by Margaret Saine earlier.  The Poetry Letter is emailed and posted on the CSPS website, CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.org. Sections of the Poetry Letter are also posted separately on the CSPS Blog, CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.com.


Hanna Kulenty, Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr. 6 - Acrylic on canvas, 2023.

MONTHLY  CONTEST SUBMISSONS GUIDELINES

California State Poetry Society encourages poetic creativity by organizing monthly poetry contests. The contests are open to all poets, whether or not they are members of the CSPS. Reading fees are $1.50 per poem with a $3.00 minimum for members and $3.00 per poem with a $6.00 minimum for non-members. Entries must be postmarked during the month of the contest in which they are entered. They must consist of a cover page with all contact information (name, address, phone number & email address) as well as the month and THEME on cover page, and the titles of the poems being submitted.  For pools of $100 or more, the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners receive $50, $10 and $5, respectively. If there are insufficient fees submitted, the minimum prize is $10.

Starting in January 2023, we are accepting previously published poems for our Monthly Contest. Please note the publication where it first appeared on any such poem. There are two ways to submit fees, by regular mail (enclosing check) or email (using Paypal): 1) by mail to CSPS Monthly Contest – (specify month), Post Office Box 4288 Sunland, California 91041, with a check made to CSPS; and 2) by email to: CSPSMonthlyContests@gmail.com (specify month), with fees paid by Paypal to the following account – CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety@gmail.com.

The monthly contest winners are notified the month after they are awarded. All of the winners for the year are listed in the first CSPS Newsbriefs and published in the first Poetry Letter of the following year. Prize-winning poems are also posted on the blog, CaliforniaStatePoetrySociety.com. The 1st prize winner receives half of the prize pool for pools less than $100. Please note: Do not send SAEs. We do not return poems. If you win, we will let you know. Otherwise, there are no notifications.

CSPS Monthly Contest Themes (Revised): 

① January: Nature, Landscape; 

② February: Love; 

③ March: Open, Free Subject;

④ April: Mythology, Dreams, Other Universes; 

⑤ May: Personification, Characters, Portraits;

⑥ June: The Supernatural; 

⑦ July: Childhood, Memoirs; 

⑧ August: Places, Poems of Location; 

⑨ September: Colors, Music, Dance; 

⑩ October: Humor, Satire; 

⑪ November: Family, Friendship, Relationships; 

⑫ December: Back Down to Earth (Time, Seasons).


Hanna Kulenty - Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 8 - acrylic on canvas, 2023




Thursday, July 11, 2024

Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2024 - Summer, Part 1 - Featured Poets Sharmagne Leland-St. John and Mary Torregrossa

Hanna Kulenty, “Oczy Grawitacyjne Nr 4” acrylic/canvas, 2023

The CSPS Poetry Letter No. 2 of 2024 features eminent  California poets Sharmagne Leland-St. John  (a poet, photographer, author of many books, and the publisher of the Quill and Parchment monthly online poetry journal) and Mary Torregrossa, a teacher and story-teller. I am honored to have known both poets personally since I started being active as a poet in California in 2007. Their lists of accomplishments ae extensive. Interestingly, they both have something in their background that I do not have: deep roots on this continent.  

I’m a recent immigrant, having moved to Canada in 1988 and to California in 1996. I only became a U.S. citizen in 2009! In contrast, Sharmagne is a “lineal descendant” of The Confederated Colville Tribe of Nespelem, Washington, while Mary was born in the state of Rhode Island (which is not an island!) and teaches English as a Second Language. They both write in English – as I do, though it is not my native tongue, not even my second language – that place is taken by Russian. Their English is definitely more “native” than mine, yet we all have the courage to do what we love the most: create poems in English.

The courage to create is also obvious in the story of our artist, Hanna Kulenty, a noted Polish composer of large scale “surrealist music” for symphony orchestras or chamber ensembles. She recently started painting on canvas, returning to her passion for painting during her college years. Her unusual  artworks remind me of her music (listen to samples on her website, https://www.hannakulenty.com). They should remind our readers of the fact that all  artists were once “self-taught” and did not need diplomas and academic credentials to create great art.  I was once confronted in Poland, where the “credentials and diplomas” are of great importance, with the accusation that I did not have a right to write poetry for I did not have a degree in literature. It was, and is, amusing – think, how many “pedigreed” people are really useless? 

The Poetry Letter No. 2 is rounded up by four reviews of poetry books written by Kathy Lohrum Cotton, Ann Fox Chandonnet, Anna Maria Mickiewicz and Deborah P Kolodji. The reviewers are Michael Escoubas,  Zbigniew Mirosławski, and Deborah Fiedler Apraku. These reviews will be posted in the second part of the Poetry Letter No. 2, Summer 2024. 

~ Maja Trochimczyk, CSPS President



FEATURED POET SHARMAGNE LELAND-ST. JOHN 

Sharmagne is a Native American performance poet, 22 time Pushcart Prize nominee, concert performer, artist and filmmaker. She divides her time between her home in Pasadena, California, "Brown Hackle Lodge", her fly fishing Lodge/B&B, in the Pacific Northwest, her artist and writer's retreat in Taos, New Mexico and a villetta in Tuscany.  Her poetry books include Unsung Songs,  Silver Tears and Time, Contingencies, La Kalima, A Raga for George Harrison, Images: A Collection of Ekphrastic Poetry and The Trip, a richly illustrated children’s book. She is co-author of Designing Movies: Portrait of a Hollywood Artist. Editor of Cradle Songs: An Anthology of Poems on Motherhood, which won the 2013 International Book Award. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies world wide. Sharmagne’s poetry is being taught in literature classes and Native American Studies courses in colleges, universities and prep schools across the nation. 


WHITE ORCHIDS

 

Ingrid loves white orchids
Dresses cut from tulle
The Ballet Russe
And lives by the golden rule

Pink champagne
And strappy red shoes
Prefers chamber music
Over a man who sings the blues

Breakfast in bed
On a silver tray
Supper at midnight
Après le ballet


Cocktail parties
And fancy dress balls
Manet and Monet
Adorn her walls

A closet full of Balenciagas
Chanels and Diors
She loves cucumber sandwiches
And petits fours

Is bored by bridge
But enjoys backgammon
Rainbow trout
And wild caught salmon

Summers in the Hamptons
Winters in the Canaries
Easter in Venice
And chocolate strawberries

Prefers travel
To staying at home
Ingrid's life
Reads like a poem

 

 

 Sharmagne Leland-St. John

from IMAGES: A Collection of Ekphrastic Poetry


EL NORTE


El Norte.
A prayer upon her brown lips.

El Norte.
A dream growing like
plumeria blossoms from
empty chambers in
her heart.

In El Norte
she can make a decent wage.
Her children will not go to bed hungry.
She quits her job at the plantation,
kisses her children's warm cheeks
as they sleep;
says goodbye to Columbia.

The Rio Grande behind her,
she now mops my neighbours' floors,
scrubs their toilets
for ten bucks an hour.

By the time she pays rent for her room,
buys bus tokens, and junk food
there is little left to send home.
Her children grow up without her.
Abuelita sends black and white photographs.
The little one is still frail and thin.

El Norte
The Land of Milk and Honey–
The Promised Land he believes in.
He'll go on ahead,
send for his children one by one;
then his wife and the baby.

Under the sweltering
San Fernando Valley sun
he pushes the market basket
as he picks through
the neighbourhood trash;
for glass and aluminum
to recycle for pennies.
Surely his job teaching
the village children their ABCs
was better than this.

In the marketplace in El Salvador
his wife almost forgets she is married.
The man with the gold tooth
smiles at her as he wraps the fish
in newspaper–
adding an extra piece now and then.

She misses her husband,

but has nothing to confess to the priest
as he leans in closer
to hear her sins.

  

Sharmagne Leland-St. John, 

Pushcart Prize Nominee, 2012


          

Hanna Kulenty, “Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 1” – acrylic/canvas, 2023

SHE DREAMS…


 

she lies down beside him 

her dreams projected 

on her forehead 

in monochrome

he sees her through 

sepia eyes.

 

she dreams 

ballerina dreams

she dreams of locomotives

and crashing waves

she dreams of footprints

vanishing like the prairie

she dreams of rain

she dreams of a lover.

 

she dreams he will

watch her forehead 

and know exactly what she wants 

she dreams of a tender  man 

his warm breath on the nape of her neck

she dreams of crickets

and a stranger with kiss-able lips

she dreams of archipelagos

 

he unbuttons every button 

on her blue silk blouse, slowly,

it falls from her shoulders 

and slips away

she wonders about moonbows 

she dreams of black roses

and he whispers softly as she sighs.

  


~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

From  forthcoming book: The Song of Sparrow



 EVERYTHING I HAD WAS BLUE


the cotton dress I wore that day

the sapphire sky,

the train upon which I arrived

the river flowing past our little town

the periwinkles in the window box

my eyes, my mood, my muse

the curling smoke from your cigar

the willow plates upon the cupboard shelves

the hydrangea soap I used to bathe myself

somewhat out of tune

 

everything I had was blue

the taper’s flame

the ink inside my pen

my socks and shoes

the night

my rose tattoo       

the lacy camisole that slipped, 

drifted off my shoulders 

toward the floor

but did not fall

the moon

the Picasso print hanging on the bedroom wall

 

everything I had was blue

 

even the notepaper

upon which you wrote the words:

 “I love you” and "Goodbye"

 

Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Published in Altadena Poetry Review 2024


OH LIFE



Oh life
Where have you taken me
'Twas once I was your fair haired child
Now it seems I'm out of style
Oh life be gentle yet
There are things I can't forget
Like Autumn love without regret
When Autumn turned to winter
Mottled leaves in circles twirl
Inside the spirits of the girl
Whose arms were once around you
Love where have you gone
Just when I thought I'd found you


Snowflakes dance like feathers round my head
I cannot dream my dreams
In an empty bed
Life is for lovers
That's what you said
Then placed your soul inside me
But now that Winter's taken you from sleep
It seems there's nothing left to keep
You here beside me’


~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sndVyPF_jUY&t=9s




Hanna Kulenty, "Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr. 4" acrylic on canvas, 2023



EULOGY FOR HECTOR  PIETERSON, 1964-1976

 


He will not speak in syllables now
He will not utter a sound
in English, Xhosa, or Afrikaans

But he will speak volumes
through his martyrdom
this 13 year old,
this boy,
this child
who took a bloody stand
who took a bullet
from a white man’s hand

This young “coloured” boy
not black, mind you, but “coloured”
in a colour-conscious nation
of murderers and enslavers
who would massacre children
for the colour of their skin or
for speaking their mind

This boy who joined his
Soweto classmates
in a peaceful protest
to resist learning a language
no one wanted to teach,
let alone speak
this hated language
of their oppressors
no one wanted to learn
these words that would fall
from this child’s pink mouth
like boulders, not like
his native tongue, which fell

like smooth stones
washed by the river
these words.

His sister Antoinette
will never forget
she will always hold
in her memory
in her mind’s eye
the sight of him
limp and lifeless
on that fateful day
in the strong
young-man arms


of Mbuyisa Makhubo
weeping as he ran
weeping as he
raced against time
Hector’s red blood
staining his cover-alls
and his name
running toward the press car
towards the photographers
and journalists
who have made her brother famous
only in death
Mbuyisa Makhubo
who had to go into hiding
forced to flee his homeland
for helping
to try to save this child’s life

Hector’s voice clear
as he sang the hymn
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika
he was one of many
but not the first child
to take a bullet

just the first to die
and then to celebrate
his only and most important
rite of passage

Death

Hector and Hastings Ndlovu
now rest in Avalon
side by side
and their voices echo
hollow
in our ears forever …

Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika


~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John


CONTINGENCIES

 


In Azcapotzalco

I remember mostly

their dark eyes,

their round, brown faces,

Mexican bowl haircuts,

and then

the outstretched, dirty palms

on the end of spindly arms,

tiny hands

with ragged fingernails.

 

In Welligama

they encircled us,

their dry, cracked lips, begging

for a twopence.

"One two piece, one two piece,"

they chanted,

clad mummy-like in rags,

gray from the mud of streets,

the filth of poverty,

their smiles engaging.

 

I have seen them in Cairo,

near the City of the Dead,

where the deceased "live" better

than the living,


hauntingly beautiful children,

maimed, crippled,

scarred

by their parents

in order to elicit pity,

hence silver and copper coins,

from the rich American tourists.

 

In Lima, in front of the Cathedral

which held the catafalques

and Pisarro's tomb,

a gypsy woman tried to hand me

a baby, pleading,

"Un regalo, un regalo."

As I reached out for "her gift,"

you held me back.

"Don't take it," you hissed.

"She'll run away."

 

I stood there,

in the shadow

of the basilica,

in sombre half-light,

in the cobbled streets

of this foreign city,

my barren heart,

my fallow womb

needing the baby,

 

But you pulled me away.

~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John

 

Hanna Kulenty, “Oczy Grawitacyjne Nr 2,” acrylic, 2023


I SAID COFFEE


I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to cup
my warm
soft breasts
in your
un-calloused,
long,
tapered,
ringless fingered
hands?"

I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to
run your tongue
along my neck
just below
my left ear-lobe?"

 

I said coffee
I didn't say,
"would you
like to
hold me
in your arms
and feel my heart
skip beats
as you press your
hard, lean body
up against mine
until I melt
into you
with desire?"


I said coffee
as we stood there
in the jasmine
scented night
my car door
like some modern day
bundling board
separating us,
protecting us
from ourselves
and lust

I said,
"would you
like to go for
a cup of coffee?"                
I didn't say,
"would you
like to brush
your lips
across mine
as you move
silently
to bury your face
in my long, silky,
raven black hair?"

But you said,
"I can't
I'm married
I can't trust myself
to be alone
with you."
So I looked you
dead in the eye
and repeated
"I said coffee"

 

    ~ Sharmagne Leland-St. John,
“I Said Coffee” was a Pushcart Prize Nominee in 2007



FEATURED POET: MARY TORREGROSSA

MARY E. TORREGROSSA, often noted as a storyteller, is more importantly a story-listener, a practice honed by her job as an ESL teacher in Southern California. Originally from Rhode Island, she blends images and experiences of both coasts into her poetry. Mary has facilitated poetry workshops, fund raisers, hosted poetry readings and participated in many poetry and arts community events as a poet and anti-racism activist. As a collage artist, Mary feels that assembling a collage of images has a natural similarity to assembling a poem. Her first chapbook, My Zocalo Heart, is published by Finishing Line Press. Poems appear in Bearing The Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems, in Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, in Voices From Leimert Park Redux, and Miju Poetry & Poetics: Korean Poets Society of America. Mary is a winner of the Arroyo Arts Collective Poetry In The Windows and named Newer Poet of Los Angeles XIV by the Los Angeles Poetry Festival. Other publications include The Altadena Poetry Review, the SoCal Haiku Study Group Anthology, and websites for Verse-Virtual, Ekphrastic Review and Dime Show Review.


OUR CEMETERY

 


has no cypress trees

 

no sundial, no overgrowth

of forest at its edge

 

Our cemetery has a chain link fence

a fanciful wrought iron arch

facing a busy street

 

Darkness does not descend

on this patch of sacred land

 

we have streetlights

 

There is no chapel, no stained

glass window, no map

on a pedestal

 

you will never lose your way

 

We are buried on an archipelago

of grass and gravestones

 

where small American flags

just seem to appear

each Memorial Day

 

The city grows up around us

a muffler shop, the Diamante Bar

Hong Kong-style Chinese Food to-go

 

and still we are laid down

 

Once in a while, a commuter

waiting at the red light notices

 

a freshly dug hole

and a wreath of flowers

 

 ~ Mary Torregrossa. Our Cemetery first appears 

in Wide Awake, Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, 2015



RAPPROCHEMENT


 

This might be my remedy

this amber signature of tea

set here before us in cups

of glass too hot to touch.

The scent of steeping

mint leaves drifts

redolent in my thoughts.

Like an aftershock

of the Sierra Madre,

I rattle silver teaspoons

into saucers, sit

clenching sugar cubes

in my back teeth

like Esther, or Kobra,

or Zahra might have

years ago or yesterday.

The tonic eases its way

into your explanation

infused with details

of the truth. I listen,

waiting for the tea to cool.

 

Mary Torregrossa. Rapprochement 

appears as Détente, My Zocalo Heart, 2018


Hanna Kulenty, “”Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 14” – acrylic on canvas, 2023.




NIGHT HERON



In flight, they tuck their heads

back against their shoulders.

I can name this bird that forages

the mudflats on tiptoe - evening

opportunist – it clenches crabs

and earthworms and little fish

in its hard black beak.

 

My feet sink into the soft seabed

at low tide, clamming, bucket half-filled
with quahogs. The black-crowned

Night Heron lifts into the windy shift

from land to sea at dusk, free to roam,

gray bird against gray sky – it squawks

and with steady wing beats

 

leaves me mired in the muddy estuary.


    

             ~ Mary Torregrossa. Night Heron appears in Miju

               Poetry & PoeticsKorean Poets Society of America

in Korean and English, 2019



DAY LABORER



 

The hot sun at mid-day

is not as yellow

as the sun of my home.

 

In the span of concrete

bends like a finger pointing the way.

 

In the soot on the sidewalk

at the bus stops of LA

I look for the bus that scrolls HOME.

 

A hummingbird

hovers at eye level

wants me to follow

but I cannot fly.

 

The sand in the lot by the tire shop

is like cornmeal shushing

from cloth sacks in my

mother’s kitchen.

 

I stand very still

in the cool morning air

against a cinder block wall

hands in the pockets

of my sweatshirt

splattered with paint.


 

Mary Torregrossa. Day Laborer won a TOP TEN recognition

 by the Arroyo Arts Collective Poetry in The Windows Vl,

 in Spanish and English, 2014.


 WALKING YORKSHIRE

 

              I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading

                                                                              ~Emily Bronte


A wide expanse

of green mossy

mounds, a boggy

mess of land where

thick fog lingers long,

where after drizzle

mist ensues. And when

the day burns bright

and the robin’s-egg

blue sky polishes our eyes,

we are reminded by old

Nellie Dean, warning while

we walk – not to be deceived.

Not to scurry nor to slip

but take a measured step

though quick, and look

before you leap, as you might

land your boot in some hidden

glassy pool or maybe even

fall, head over heels,

into the marshy and uneven

moor.


~ Mary TorregrossaWalking Yorkshire appears in 

Gondal Heights: A Bronte Tribute Anthology, 2019.

 

Hanna Kulenty, “Muzyka Grawitacyjna Nr 11,” acrylic on canvas, 2023.