poet
I had the pleasure of reading at the Asylum Hill Congregational Church in Hartford yesterday, May 15, for the Riverwood Poetry Series. Joining me was poet Jasmine Dreame Wagner. It was so great to meet her and get to know her work. Both of us were invited and introduced by my good friend, David K. Leff, host of of the evening’s events.
Happy Mother’s Day. Here’s a poem for my mom, from Four Blue Eggs.
Spinning Wheel
A slice of saffron in the autumn woods
becomes a thread the eye can follow
into next spring. It’s the same with mothers,
their love is sewn into our character,
into the yarn of history, into all the befores
and the ever-afters we’ll quilt ourselves.
We see her face when we look closely
into the structure of our smiles
or watch our own hands wash and dry the dishes, plunging
our fingers into warm blue water.
Every time we look with love
at bluebirds waiting on the clothesline,
or see sunshine stenciled in a shadow
on the sidewalk; every time
we pull the quilt up around our chins,
we’re colored by our mother’s threads.
We see her standing behind the camera
turning the lens, snapping the photo
so our faces are clear and smiling;
we must only turn the camera to see
the earth stitching its path
around the sun, its filament
curved into the elliptical promise of return.
Ferne with her first two children (three more to come), and a great shot of me showing my butt to the world. I’m pretty sure she made our matching outfits.
Young Ferne with her stylish mother, Margaret.
with one of two red-headed babies (probably Kris).
Four Blue Eggs is available as a Kindle e-book for only 4.99 right now on Amazon–a mother’s day bargain. Preferably, support independent publishers and buy the collection directly from Homebound Publications. Pick up Reconnaissance too, and pre-order The Foundation of Summer, by Eric D. Lehman, my talented husband.
Last August, I spent three wonderful days at the Wellspring House in Ashfield MA. I’m grateful to have had the space, time, solitude and solace, which allowed me to finish the manuscript for Reconnaissance. 
Geranium
or geraniums, depending
on if I call it by the number of stalk –three –)
or by its potted home: –one – white enamel
ridged like waterfall rocks)
is deciding
whether it is coming or going.
Likely, someone has turned
the thinnest frond
toward the light
of open window; someone has filled
the pot with too much water.
The Phillis Wheatley Room
Join Jasmine Dreame Wagner and me at the Riverwood Poetry Series Reading on Thursday, May 14th. Doors open at 6:30. An Open mic session will begin the evening, followed by our readings and a Q&A. Admission is FREE. Non-perishable food donations for the AHCC (Asylum Hill Congregational Church) Crisis Food Support program are gratefully accepted.
For the last day of National Poetry Month, pick up a poem and put it in your pocket, then share it. It’s not a bad idea to do this every day. A poem a day keeps the doctor away.
Here are two poems I kept in my pocket for years.
since feeling is first
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
My poem, “What Jodie Taught Me about Tattoos” is featured on Homebound Publication’s website, promoting the release of Reconnaissance and celebrating National Poetry Month.
Jodie had a beautiful spirit, and though she had gone through a lot in her life, she made laugh and smile, and made an otherwise uncomfortable freshman year of college tolerable. Her family continues her memory and honors her with the Jodie S. Lane Public Safety Foundation. Please read about their work and the mission to improve public safety and and education about stray power lines.
What Jodie Taught Me about Tattoos
—for Jodie Lane
She could not be buried,
her father told her,
with ink scalpelled into skin,
defacement of the body
prohibited by Jewish law.
With spider legs painted
around skull’s demon visage,
she wore hers without apology
under stringy tank tops
and the ripped sarcasm
of baggy sweats around
a petite frame. She confided
obsessions over cigarettes
blurred into the falling leaves
of freshman year laughing,
never telling stories
of spiders or skulls, not minding
the sunflower I chose
for my own mark. We wanted
to ink into the eternal, forge
the intransient specter
of adulthood with scars
of our own making.
The last time I saw her
we sat for coffee between
darkened booths at the local
diner. A postcard sent
from Texas came a few years
later and then abbreviated
obituary lines stapled
between the alumni magazine,
electrocution, freak
accident walking dogs,
voltage engraving her body
with ungrounded shrieks
through a Manhattan sidewalk.
East 11th street is pocketed
with sewer drains and manholes,
and a street sign marks
the site where she fell.
I stare up into the permanence
of the story, one I kept hidden
in the flower on my shoulder,
the rumor of loss now etched
in visible lettering across
an overcast sky, persisting
beyond a combustible
and porous layer of skin.
I found this draft of a post this morning. I’m not sure why I never finished it or posted it last year. Thanks for this month’s issue of National Geographic (about Yellowstone National Park) for inspiring me. . .
From April 2015:
I’ve been a subscriber to the National Geographic Magazine for a few years now, often binging on issues when I find a pocket of free time. This weekend is the calm before the storm of end-of-the-semester melee that will consume the next two weeks. So I’ve been catching up on the April 2015 issue, which features a moving essay commemorating the 150th anniversary of Lincoln’s death, tracing the route of the funeral procession. was reminded that the coffin remained open for most of the journey.
I finished that article on Friday, leaving all but one article for Sunday, when Maoist militants bludgeon the weakest of India’s citizens with terror and coal and pine beetles kill mighty forests from British Columbia to Colorado. Maybe the spirit of goodness in all of this was found in the salvaged wood, left after the beetles kill away everything else. The blue marks left over make beautiful patterns. Al Gore, apparently, owns a blue-stained ukulele, but I’m not sure to laugh or cry knowing that. Most of the time, the corpse trunks and branches are burned, but it turns out that much of the beetles’ reign is due to the practice of not allowing the forests to renew themselves through fire. That, and the sweltering globe, which we’ve given them so willingly.
It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and burdened by new knowledge. What I found stranger was that my own sadness was tempered by something like thankfulness. Of course I felt lucky to be safe, comfortable, and privileged, but more so, thankful for the writers and photographers, and for my subscription dollars that ask us to understand that sorrow exists and is as valid and life affirming as its opposite. Thankful that there are words, however insufficient, to make up for the sorrow.
Another successful release of Groundswell, the University of Bridgeport’s Literary Magazine, featuring poetry, fiction, photography, and drawings by UB students, including a pool of very strong Creative Writing Majors. This year’s editor, Jose Cabrera, served as emcee for the release party.
Thanks to faculty advisor Eric Lehman for promoting and reading from Reconnaissance.
Photos courtesy of UB.
Head over to Homebound Publications for all you need for National Poetry Month, and get ready for Poem in Your Pocket Day. Here’s a selection from Reconnaissance and my little son, Django, who inspired the poem:
Look for Reconnaissance in paperback and ebook, on Amazon, Kindle, and Nook or ask for it in your local indie bookstore.
Justifying the Ways of Animals to God
Having little or no knowledge
about the fall of man,
the boy approaches the ringneck
with the zeal of a crusader
without pausing, as there is
nothing eternal to consider.
The confession had been shed already:
flaky, transparent skin hidden
beneath a rug in the unheated summer room—
the yellow necklace collaring
a brand-new black form.
The saga unfolds quietly
unaided by the dramatic pauses
of scripture nor capped off
with sermons on forgiveness.
The bite is swift, but not final:
there must be suffering.
Rebellion, pride, seduction—
these do not enter the minds of snakes
and a cat cannot tell a fallen angel
from a demon dancing
in the living room’s haloed light.
Amy Nawrocki 