Marianne Szlyk edits The Song Is... a blog-zine
for poetry and prose inspired by music (especially jazz). Her poems have
appeared in of/with, bird's thumb, Cactifur, Mad Swirl, Setu, Solidago, Red
Bird Chapbook's Weekly Read, Mermaid Mirror, Epiphanies and Late Realizations
of Love, and Resurrection of a Sunflower, an anthology of work responding to
Vincent Van Gogh's art. Her full-length book, On the Other Side of the Window, is now available from Pski's Porch
and Amazon. She invites you to stop by her blog-zine and perhaps
even submit some poems: http://thesongis.blogspot.com
On Drawing the Six of
Cups
Snow-covered spruce, my age-mates, surround me
as I walk the long-gone path,
once dirt, trodden-down grass, and stone,
now asphalt. Ghosts of ponies linger,
breath rising and mingling with mine.
as I walk the long-gone path,
once dirt, trodden-down grass, and stone,
now asphalt. Ghosts of ponies linger,
breath rising and mingling with mine.
Beneath tall white pines, needles lie
as if no snow fell today,
heaping onto stiff spruce, bare trees,
bleached grass, and stony fields alike.
A toy stove, still aqua and
white, waits below. Plastic, it will
persist long after the trees will
be felled, long after I’m gone.
I look for a sword but find
only dolls, only a white bear
in a yellowed hand-smocked dress.
as if no snow fell today,
heaping onto stiff spruce, bare trees,
bleached grass, and stony fields alike.
A toy stove, still aqua and
white, waits below. Plastic, it will
persist long after the trees will
be felled, long after I’m gone.
I look for a sword but find
only dolls, only a white bear
in a yellowed hand-smocked dress.
Dancing in 1984
In Friday night’s blood-red ballroom, clots
of couples twirl to electronic music,
of couples twirl to electronic music,
notes like string binding them together,
keeping them apart.
keeping them apart.
No cat who can see through
patchouli murk, Lila looks for space
away from mirrors, shirtless bald men,
tiny sleeveless women.
patchouli murk, Lila looks for space
away from mirrors, shirtless bald men,
tiny sleeveless women.
White skirt flapping, she runs past
couples now clutching, now coming apart.
couples now clutching, now coming apart.
Her bare feet pound the floor.
She stops, finding herself next to
the fire escape.
the fire escape.
The man she came with dances
beside flickering candles. A birdlike woman
flutters past, red hair like feathers.
He touches her elbow, a wing.
Wincing, Lila imagines blue flame catching
the hem of his faded jeans,
burning this brick building down
the hem of his faded jeans,
burning this brick building down
while she waits on the fire escape.
"Ghosts of ponies" - yes~
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