The glassmen run reconnaissance
like fluorescent-vested spiders
through the web of night streets;
lacing the village tightly
from downhill church to up.
Dawn crashing they come
green reflections
of wined evenings upended
echoing through the fog.
Horizontal Clock: for Robin Kay – by Bonnie McClellan
What counter-force
turns you like a clock
telling only horizontal
time?
Eternal quarter-to-three,
your sleeping frame
crosses the deserted
rectangle of my bed.
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Piedmont: by Bonnie McClellan
Nude summer feet
on sheepish boulders falling,
……….through peasant ices’ glacial tread
floe following light, tripping
roll, down running fleet
……….biting toes with
………………..ever-glancing snows
………………………..green-moistened lisp.
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Blink: cadence
Where The Lost Things Are
A poem that’s just right for summer from IPM contributor John Stevens:
At the back of the west wind,
where the evening sun wakens a bird-rich isle:
that’s where the lost things are.
Where the hummingbird
quivers at a trumpet dripping with nectar
and clouds of scent rise over a turquoise sea,
that’s where they are, the things that can’t be found.
The golden sovereign that slipped between
the boards in the Tudor Hall; the Hall itself lost at cards
in Venice on the long Grand Tour;
they’re here; this is the spot.
Even the daughter, forswearing carriages and
pianoforte, who was carried away in steam and smoke
for love; and the son gone surfing in foreign lands;
they too are here. They all come here.
And therefore you.
You’ve raced across the foot-burning sand
to float like a starfish in the clear lagoon,
your tequila-on-ice waiting you back in the shade.
If only mine were too.
…….If only I were…
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What’s New? A literary “Gathering”
Author Chris Fillebrown, a long-time IPM contributor, has been working on the third book in his short fiction series about the character Phillip Young. Published in weekly installments, he has now arrived at the halfway point of his newest work exploring the touchy terrain of marriage, grief, loss and the mesmerizing mazes the central character’s internal monologue can construct and deconstruct. Below is an excerpt from Part 6 – Gathering: Early Arrival
He turned the radio off, rolled his window down. The early morning air. Smells of oil and gasoline. The sickly sweet nectar of antifreeze rising up from green puddles on the vast expanse of concrete, dripped from hissing engines. Sharp metal sounds. Highway construction. The beep of garbage truck backing up behind a shuttered restaurant. The clank of its tusks, the whine of its motor lifting, toss rotted dumpster smells onto its back.
It is this density of description that brings the reader not only fully into the realm of Phillip Young but also into an awareness of his or her own environment, re-observing a mundane activity – such as waiting for an oil-change – through the tone poems of Young’s internal monologues.
If you’d like to read more, you can begin at the beginning – in the midst of a dream – by clicking at the link below:
Gathering – Part 1 – The dream of ascending
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Impending: by Bonnie McClellan
We awake to the muffled chaff of rain
as the grey down of clouds roundly tussle
for the pleasure of concealing dawn.
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Come Into The Garden, Maud
New work by IPM poet Brad Frederiksen, an interesting response to an old tune (who still says record?). The second poem I’ve read this week with Maud (maude): http://anonymous20thcenturypoet.wordpress.com/2014/05/15/dream-fragments/
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for want of a mirror
New work from IPM contributor anonymous 20th century poet:
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What Bird – National Poetry Month Day 3 with Bonnie McClellan
To help Sonyarehn celebrate National Poetry Month (Inaugurated by the Academy of American Poets in 1996 to celebrate poetry and its vital place in American culture) I offered this poem, there will be new poems every day throughout April so if you’re feeling deprived after the end of IPM, please visit sonyarhen.wordpress.com to enjoy what her blog has to offer.
Welcome to day three of National Poetry Month. Today I am pleased to present fellow WordPress blogger and poet Bonnie McClellan. Her blog contains many of her expressive poems as well as poems from other participants in International Poetry Month in February. Check those out on her link below. Enjoy!
The locust tree begins:
scarlet thorns, greening branches.
Impatient spring slips wetly
the van der Waals bonds
of this weak winter.
Time, time, time,
wasted in blank tasks:
showers, flossing, the recycling of newspapers.
I forget what bird I saw this morning.
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Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 