I want to write you a friendship poem but it wants clichés: calls in the middle of the night, laughs over a late drink.
Instead there’s this cheese. I ordered it affumicato (smoked) at the market, felt brava speaking Italian.
But the aproned man cut down a giant, stagionato (aged) cheese, hung from the ceiling over a display for tourists I scooted between as I played the role of signora.
He sliced the cheese, chunks crumbling to the side. I asked for only half, he sighed.
I kept half of the half, gave you the other quarter wrapped in plastic bags. Enough for two meals!
You sent me a photo of you and your husband smiling as big as the cliché I wanted to write to ringraziarti for you.
Chloe Yelena Miller’s poetry collection, Viable, was published by Lily Poetry Review Books (2021) and her poetry chapbook, Unrest, was published by Finishing Line Press (2013). Miller is a recipient of a 2020 and 2022 DC Arts and Humanities Fellowship (Individuals) grant. She teaches writing at American University, and Politics & Prose Bookstore, as well as privately. Miller is the co-founder of Brown Bag Lit; she teaches and organizes events for them. Contact her and read some of her work at www.chloeyelenamiller.com / https://twitter.com/ChloeYMiller
my brain guides the fingers each a hand patterns sequences of line hardly a chord for or against and the surprising key change
my eye leads scouts four beats in advance of the fingers deaf to what they strike phrasing expression substitution dynamics
fingers track each note an arabesque of positions each note detached from the prior in a soliloquy of measures the expanse of one beat’s syncopation
j s bach genius unfurled in the music breathing my heart wanders the baroque splendor
the music mine by performance the muscles the arcs of bone the bent of elbows the audience
late night you tube
rambling through the rubble that leads to the gates of elusive sleep snack bowl empty remote in hand under my wandering thumb I scroll down fast forward to
elephant child lost unheard his squeaky trumpet from within the sinkhole but village children beseech the elders to secure the harness thirty with the thickest rope followed by links of makeshift cablechains
village upon village gather to rescue children lower water toss bundled grass I am the elephant child the elders’ makeshift chain
on the fifth day five hundred men haul chant tow the throbbing line ears out first the youngster his trunk next rears jubilant amid midday shouts of “hurre hurre” I am the fifth day I am theshouts of hurre pause click “home” “search” enter “downhill”
I am the colombian mountains I am skateboarders racing the snake tilt twist turns of my ungraded challenges the thin air the sweeping tenderness of studded greenways at the heights I want to shrug off my keen crew our ballet squats on the wide bends crouching at the waist for the long straight hauls shifting the rear wheels our arms outstretched braking through the convolutions of my traffic below
the tree line my racers skirt a motorbike a bus holy mother of god deliver us past the on coming line of cars no officials no saw horses no signs no one
officiates the death defying drop over shattered patches over pooling waters over pebble filled repairs under the murked shadows of overgrown jungle into the shocked blinding sun my race ends at the first stop
browse search “uphill” I am the craggy foothills of the french alps I am fuel injected an engine screaming cocooned in a lattice of welded pipes coated with red neoprene my earlier scampers scale the dirt packed granite outcroppings tearing through the yellow taped pathways
my chrome plated double exhaust pipes gush a basso profundo of guttural splendor my oversized wheels tear the hillside dirts into a cloud of brown euphoria
nearing the top I am tossed backward by the failure of my incline I am turned by a tree trunk spun to tumble against the layered face of rock I land upright swerve to grip again the climb I gun the open throttle my white helmet strap tightens with piercing whines
the last assault slight of the perpendicular leans into the height’s plateau my rear wheels catch on a big surface root I tumble forward plow a new furrow into the meadow
click on “fios” press tuner “off” press recliner remote to “lift” switch heating pad to “off” unplug earphones click sliding balcony doors to “locked” turn on oxygenator and c-pap machine
seat face mask press “go” dial to level “3” secure knee guard tighten hip brace rumple the double bed covers close eyes breath “out pain” “peace in” “out pain” “peace in”
let not our heart be troubled
by the burning ganglia the evening total pool
by the wayward hysteria the gentle offshore breeze
by the escalated heart beat the floating dove’s feather
by the avalanche upheaval the last of the sun the first of the stars on the still water
by the biliously woeful cries the rising tide lifts the clear pool the white feather the the ebbing light the inlayed stars into the embrace of the inland sea
took my breath away
remember my father heating the water in the copper stack in the kitchen over a bed of blue flames – behind the stove but it was never enough
two kettles filled with tap water would wait one whistling on top of the stove then poured into the bath around my feet careful not to burn but to embellish the milky soap dissolve
sometimes it was not enough mother with one arm balancing between the cast iron tub and the heavey kettle pouring to make it better as the snow storm shook the window frames the wind whistled around the roof
her flesh fell to a conclusion over me submerged the kettle on the floor she would kneel by the tub reach in with her soapy hand to touch
Craig E. Flaherty, writer of poems, reader at poetry groups, publisher of Coastline Window Poems, The Nature of Light, The Glossy Family, presenter at the Takoma Park Thursday Poetry Reading, poetry group leader, member of Writing a Village. His poetry has appeared in Viator and The Raven’s Perch. A lifelong performer of church music, organist, carilloneur, pianist with Dotke Piano Trio, husband, father, grandfather, and accompanist to Jordyn Flaherty.
Image: https://pxhere.com/en/photo/1546039, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I take my poem to a laboratory. It smells like chrysanthemums. A team of doctors wearing gas masks tells me poetry is an equation with a solution. The last line will not save lives. They place my poem in a beaker. They should have planted it in a porcelain pot.
Edward Hopper
I’m jealous of the sky, Hopper says.
Breathe it in, I say.
Am I stoned or a canvas? Did I still life myself into a pebble?
Am I not worthy of skipping on a lake’s surface tension?
A shot of orange color hits me with atomic force.
I am expansive lava, meteor.
Hammock
I have fallen in the universe’s hammock. I listen to the trees walk and skip around me. I am the White Rabbit in search of a rolex. I feel the kindness of dice roll around my knees.
Alma Thomas
Painting is howling
in a howl of eternal howls
shaped like an egg
of scrambled howls.
I am lost in a blue forest speckled with purple rain
and yellow sounds of butter melting.
Regie Cabico is the first Asian American Poet and openly Queer Poet to win the Nuyorican Poets Cafe Grand Slam and is a 3 Time National Poetry Slam Finalist. His work has appeared on TEDx Talk, HBO’s Def Poetry Jam, NPR’s Snap Judgement. He is the recipient of a Writers In Residency from La Maison Baldwin and The Asian Pacific Studies Artist in Residence at NYU. Awards include a New York Innovative Theater Award for his work on the New York Neo-Futurists production of Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind. His first full-length collection of poetry is A Rabbit in Search of a Rolex (Day Eight, 2023).
Meditation Under the Tree
I think of you at every moment
of the day even if there are others
in the world, other wars to fix.
It is always like this, inspiration
takes blood, sweat, absolute
compromise until love arrives
because we are exhausted from
running fast, pressed in the course
that life sets. Stop already. Take
a breath. We are there even if
in our heads we visited the country
without a hat, even if obsession
with love flourishes in your poem
because the poet maudit must write
about the flower wilted, punched,
destroyed. Or perhaps one can change
themes like a lizard its skin. I sit
in the leaves of the tree. I am waiting
for you. Nobody can see me
except you; because
I think I see you still.
Meditasyon anba pye bwa
Map panse a ou chak moman
nan lajounen men gen lòt moun
nan monn, gen lòt lagè pou n ranje.
Se toujou konsa, enspirasyon
pran san, swe, konpromi absoli
jiskaske lanmou pral rive,
paske nou bouke pou kouri
vit prese nan kous lavi dirije.
Pare deja. Pran souf.
Nou la menm si nan tèt
nou te ale vizite peyi san chapo,
menm si obsesyon lanmou fleri
nan powèm ou paske
powèt modi dwe ekri
sou flè fane, bouke, detwi.
Oubyen petèt nou ka chanje tèm
tankou yon zandolit chanje po li.
M nan fêy pyebwa,
Map tann ou.
Pyès moun pa ka wè m sof oumen
paske m panse wè w toujou.
Jesula
Jesula would come
every other day to wash
my clothes and prepare
my food, dishes spiced
with chilies from my island.
When she washed
by hand she took care
with the beauty of each cloth.
When she finished ironing
they became like they were
on the first day I found them.
Jesula, you know
the bicycle my little boy
would ride. You can
take it now. The fact
that your son will ride
the bike means
that life will go on
and my goodbye
take place
in peace, unafraid.
Jesula
Jesula vini chak de jou pou fè manje
epi fè lesiv pou mwen
yon manje epise ak piman
zile mwen,
Lè li lave rad ak men l
li fe atansyon a bote twal la.
Lè li fin pase'l li tounen
tankou premye jou mwen te jwenn li.
Jesula, ou konnen
bekann pitit mwen te monte a.
Kounye a ou ka pran li.
kounya pitit ou pral monte l
sa vle di lavi pral kontinye.
De pa mwen pral fè
nan lapè san pè.
Visit
There is a limit. You talk
too much. For several weeks
the same agitation, too much
insecurity. You don't have
a passport, a visa. But each
day you can ask for documents.
You must stop the excuses.
Make a gesture of solidarity
with people who love you
to the end of the world,
to Ethiopia. Facebook cannot
replace the hands of a person,
his embrace. Live not only
with the faithful servitude
that wants to kiss my feet
each time I visit you.
Vizitè
Gen limite, radotè.
Ou te pale twòp. Depi
semèn yo menm agiman,
anpil ensekirite. Ou pa gen
paspò, viza. Men chak jou
ou ka solisite dokiman.
Se pou ou elimine eskiz.
Fè yon jès solidarite ak monn
ki renmen w jouk Etyopi.
Facebook pa ka ranplase
manyen ak anbrase moun,
Viv pa sèlman ak sèvitè
fidèl ki te vle mòde pye
mwen nan grenn fwa
m te vizite w.
Indran Amirthanayagam is a poet, editor, publisher, translator, YouTube host and diplomat. He writes in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and Haitian Creole. He has published twenty-three poetry books, including Powet Nan Po A (Poet of the Port), which is forthcoming from MadHat Press. He edits the Beltway Poetry Quarterly, has received numerous fellowships, and hosts The Poetry Channel.
Image: The_Bicycle (60781294) from Mark Gojkovich under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license.
Truly this nation remains in debt Despite approving the funds necessary to address the ceiling Yes, we the people, Bound by a noninclusive constitution With a shortsighted Bills of Rights Rights that did not apply Rights for a few but for the once enslaved yet denied A check was written with the Emancipation To yield 40 acres and a mule was the expectation But soon as the the great emancipator by assassin was shot Gone was the promise as if in writing it was not
400 years for services rendered were not paid The lynchings, the burnings, the bombings, water hoses, unjust imprisonment Compensation was never made For the lives For the land For the time For the separated and broken families For the displacement For substandard living conditions For the separate but never equal For the lack of and miseducation Trying day to day to live Being told to forget and forgive
But what is forgiveness without repentance Just another delay to deny our humanity and existence So with a written and spoken apology you feel sufficient to get by To erase our presence from U.S. History curriculum you vehemently justify Departments of diversity, equity and inclusion are steadily across academic systems are being dismantled Something about it further promoting division We continue to advocate and do the justice work despite their lies and misinformation Quick to say to cry against CRT When a book or class they’ve never read or did see
More than a forced apology More than a national holiday Reparations long overdue And even with various committees and considerations Don’t hold your breath hoping a vote will put it through But from what we have seen your credit is no good Any check you’d even write would bounce because of insufficient funds Just don’t deny the debt you owe It’s been reported to all necessary agencies Interest is compounded daily And we’ll yet cry out for what is owed until every penny and dime is paid
With a B.S. from Appalachian State in Communication Disorders, M.A. in Speech-Language Pathology from South Carolina State University, Master’s of Library Science from North Carolina Central University and Master’s of Divinity from John Leland Center for Theological Studies, Monica Leak uses the power of information to reach others through creative content. Monica’s works include contributions to the following: Faith of our Founders 100 Daily Devotionals to Inspire, Encourage and Propel the Finer Woman, Purpose Pushers: The Journey of Discovering and Walking in Your Life’s Purpose, Pretty, Paid, and Powerful:40 Days to Empowering the Woman Within, Speak Up We Deserve to be Hard: Stories of Being Black in America, Call to Intercede Vol. 1 (January 2022) and Sacred Sistering: A Devotional for Women of Color Ministry Leaders (March 2022); lenten devotionals: The Road to Calvary Surviving a Season of Suffering and Resipiscence, A Lenten Devotional for Dismantling White Supremacy (2018, 2019, 2020 editions) and Journey to Easter. She published her first poetry collection, No More Hashtags Remembrance and Reflections in 2018, No More Hashtags:Who You Calling? in 2019 and For Her Name’s Sake in 2021. Her work appeared in the Maryland Bards Poetry Review 2020. You can learn more about Monica by following @MLeakPoetry on all social media platforms (Facebook/Instagram/Twitter/YouTube).