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Two Poems by Dale S. Brown

FACE

My face distorts and dances

in the rippling water.

And a goldfish floats through my nose.

SCRAWNY KID

Scrawny kid.

Lean against your crumbling shack,

And try to paint with mud.

Ignore the biting fleas and mosquitos

and itching lice and hookworm,

Unless of course you crush them to make paint.

Ignore your running nose,

Your dirty bruises,

And the endless throb of hunger

in your chest.

Listen only to the urge to paint,

And if you listen well and obey,

You need not feel the pain of poverty.


Dale S. Brown is the author of I Know I Can Climb the Mountain, a poetry book which sold out its first edition of 1,000 copies.  She is the author of four other non-fiction books and many articles, including one that was published in the Washington Post. Over 200 of her poems were published in literary magazines and newspapers.   She read her poetry at The Folger Library, Martin Luther King Library, Georgetown Hospital and many other venues.  She has read each year for Poetry Café, a program of the Arts and Humanities Division of Georgetown University.  Her most recent featured reading was for Words Out Loud in 2020. 


Image by Shinnosuke Matsubara, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Four Poems by Sara Cahill Marron


The Birds Busiest Before Dawn

North Carolina, January 7, 2021

America, can you still hear us? Caged, mournful,
what songs echo empty streets after all ballots
have been cast? Crying to join a chorus that does not march,
conducts cacophonous chatter, forgets birdsong
in a forest of Babel, crows roosting on fenced streets.

I jump in a car, head south to meet the sun each morning,
pelicans plucking fish too shallow to survive
my own spine curved in a crescent
mimicking moon seasons with washed-up
gastropods, cuttlefish, ammonite, who know
I left the city too quickly, thinking water would save me

What are the dolphins up to this morning?
I wonder, both of us far from barbed wire,
armed or not, angry or not, ocean-less,
tripping on dry land the army of onlookers cannot
divide themselves from the body politic, seduced citizens,
a nation of tit worshippers shaking hips faster
and faster to squealing violins, out of tune trombones
playing anthems for the god of white liberty—
while underwater, creatures click to themselves deepwater
zen laughs at our din of bullets and ballots, defiant, endless noise.

White Space

This time
When you arrive,
I want to tell you everything
sitting cross-legged
on the bed we made love
(can we call it that?)
after so many years, isn’t it?
when you cross the threshold,
with raspberries, oranges,
sweets I suck on
after you’ve left pages
for me to flip through,
imagine you in their lines
white space—what of it?
enjambment is a learned behavior
each line a world
brings me closer
softly those lips
grow more familiar
breasts pressed against me
I expand my lungs
inhale the weight of you
letters too light, rare books
endless journals burning
yet, printed across your ribs
permanence my fingers brush
promise, to endure longer than poems
what love letter will we leave?
when the door shuts behind you,
dates in my fridge,
smells of you follow me for hours
through every lunar crest
some cycle we return to
sometimes I am dark
and you the light moon
showing faces to the world below
who thinks we are two phases,
my body a crescent in your arms.

The Duties of a Lover

The satisfaction of pulling down your mask. your face into mine,
quickly washing when you go. I wait to be alone. time when sun
streams. writing freely. a duty to myself. to celebrate myself.
sending emails from my nest. only for bird eggs and hatchlings
who happen to survive the spring fall. ground scavengers mad for
worms, insects, seeds. I’ve moved on. ready for the next season.
myself. glassed irises reflect every twilight. dropping feathers for
strangers to muse upon. carrying generations in my wingbeats. for
centuries I’ve built hangars in mountain passes. overlooks higher
than human lungs sustain. legs give up far below. craggy terrain
defiant to scrupulous steps. waterless bodies, these mountains. tear
up shoes. crack frail bones. little boys build camp sites. warm
flames, sedentary things. myself. careful to send cooling clouds,
rain showers, pull green tendrils from the earth for meals. lick a
little stardust. dance in a wide circle. grow up as basil beneath your
feet. myself. a hand you never held. scented, you fail to take me
with you. tremors quake. little fires lit quick. gulp the last of the
coffee. incense burned in the bathroom. door slams on the way
out. baby bird, what song? myself. exhale you in the smoke.

Leda Painted During the Pandemic
for Ilse

So in love with baby bird helping it
transition into the next life I missed.

six swans ruling Central Park’s Boathouse lake
slink past seven Contact Tracers,

white outstretched wings gilded with history
warring winter, frozen fires, all of us sitting

cross-legged on planting grounds stroking
soft soil where nurtured artichoke sprouts

might one day defy curfews like me,
an owl natural as night bellowing

black bodies be saved, richness restored,
I’m always dragging my Art around in cases,

never reading even a paragraph, writing
a single syllable before pouring protest energy

into the streets taking videos, photos, getting
sunburnt, saving baby birds from their nests.

Sara Cahill Marron is the author of Reasons for the Long Tu’m (Broadstone Books, 2018), Nothing You Build Here, Belongs Here (Kelsay Books 2021), and Call Me Spes (MadHat Press 2021), and is the Associate Editor of Beltway Poetry Quarterly. Her work has been published widely in literary magazines and journals such as Meniscus, West Trade Review, Cordella, Newtown Literary, and Lunch Ticket, and other anthologies, available at www.saracahillmarron.com.


Image by Miomir Magdevski, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Words I Write by Fran Abrams

Words I Write

are words you read.
Do my words bring you warmth
like sun on shoulders? Exhilaration
like riding a motor bike fast?
Laughing children
who make you laugh?

Poems I write
are scenes you see.
Do my poems show you vines
where green grapes ripen to purple?
Places on the coast
you have never seen?
Someone who loves you
arriving on a train?

I write other poems
for no one to read.
Poems that sound
like my inner doubts.
Words meant only for myself
until someone who
cares for me
understands them
though I never
made them visible.

Fran Abrams began writing poetry in 2017. She has had poems published in print and online, including in Work Literary Magazine and in the Winter 2021 Bulletin of Alan Squire Publishing. Her poems appear in eight forthcoming and published anthologies, including This is What America Looks Like from Washington Writers Publishing House. In 2019, she was a juried poet at Houston Poetry Fest and a featured reader at DiVerse Gaithersburg (MD) Poetry Reading Series. Visit franabramspoetry.com.


Image by Jiří Sedláček (Frettie), CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Indian River by Stephen Roddewig

Indian River

I had no idea
when I threw the mangrove seed,
wishing for brighter days,
clouds prowled over the mainland.

Perhaps my offering failed,
perhaps nothing could be done.
But the guilt that I carry
betrays the lingering love.

After I threw my farewell
spiraling into the silver-rimmed waves,
the real pain crept up.
When nothing more could be done.

After the prayers,
after lives are replanted,
then comes the limbo.
Too late to cry,
too early to laugh.

Months later, I returned
to shores warmed by memories.
I had no idea
what awaited me.

As my blistered feet
walked along the seawall,
dead sea grass
turned the air to salted mildew.

The mangrove my brother had planted
so many sunburns ago,
sprouting alone beside the dock,
had shriveled and blackened.

Only the cicadas remained,
appraising the pale man below,
before droning their scratching song.
But above the malaise
rose the sharpened chirps.

And I watched
as the black wings of the osprey
flew guard over a second seed
and the memories

Stephen A. Roddewig is a marketing content writer living in northern Virginia. His work has previously been published in two separate Virginia’s Best Emerging Poets anthologies as well as the literary magazines ArtAscent and Gardy Loo. In addition, Stephen is now contracted to publish his first short story “Land’s End Light” in Abyss and Apex on January 1, 2022. When not writing, he enjoys collecting records and running races.


Image: CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons

She Kills Monsters by Ceoli Jacoby

This article was a finalist in the 2020 DC Student Arts Journalism Competition. Click here to learn more about the competition.

In many ways, Thursday night’s performance of “She Kills Monsters” was like any other live performance. The cast and crew listened to their directors deliver the pre-show announcement, anxious to begin the play. The actors donned elaborate costumes, delivered their lines in front of sets their media designer had put together and executed scene changes set to live music.

However, it was also the first of its kind. The actors entered from the Zoom waiting room instead of from the wings. The lighting designers sat idle, trusting the cast to make corrections on their own. And the audience, about 5,000 strong at its peak, tuned in from the comfort of their own homes.

The road to putting on a full-length production via livestream was a rocky one. When the cast list was finalized, no one expected that the University of Maryland would soon send students packing as a result of the coronavirus pandemic.

“We’d all pretty much come to the conclusion that it wasn’t happening,” said junior theatre performance major Ren Alberg. “But then the week after our spring break, we got an email that we were going to attempt to stage the play through Zoom. It was very preliminary, we didn’t know how it was gonna happen, we just knew that our director said we had a plan and we were like, ‘cool!’”

“She Kills Monsters” follows protagonist Agnes Evans’ discovery of her late younger sister Tilly’s identity through a Dungeons and Dragons module she left behind. It explores themes of queerness, wish-fulfillment and self-forgiveness, all while providing a very real picture of the sometimes rough, mostly rewarding existence that is sisterhood.

The play “She Kills Monsters” is a technical challenge even in its original format. But translating all of its necessary elements (which included – among other things – a gelatinous blob, a five-headed dragon and a flock of fairies) onto a livestream seemed near-impossible. The cast and crew faced challenges every step of the way. From learning to work through laggy video to positioning actors in such a way that the Zoom backgrounds would neither engulf them nor disappear into their home environments, there was a steep learning curve.

“Our primary job [as actors] is to bring the character to life and to do a lot of the character development,” explained junior theatre performance major Elijah Williams. “But now that we’re not on campus anymore, we don’t have as many resources as we usually do … so now we have to be our costume designer, we have to be our lighting designer, we have to be our own director in a way.”

The actors, though, were up to the task.

“[We had to] figure out how we were going to make it look like we were going to make it look like we were interacting with the people we weren’t really there with by figuring out how to manipulate the locations of our boxes on Zoom or change filters on Snap Camera to make it look like we were different characters,” Alberg said.

The script that the actors used was a combination of playwright Qui Nguyen’s original dialogue and the Zoom adaptation, which was based on the show’s Young Adventurers Edition and produced in collaboration with director Jared Mezzocchi.

Mezzocchi and co-director Lisa Nathans considered the production an experiment which sought to answer three essential questions.

“During a COVID-19 world, can live theatre still exist in a real way?,” asked Nathans.

“Can the human essence truly be captured in pixels?,” added Mezzocchi. “Can a community come together in their own isolated space to have one communal experience?”

In the end, the answers were clear: yes, yes and yes.

“The tears that were leaving people’s eyes [after the show] said it all. We were incredibly proud of each other and we came a long way. We struggled with a lot of things, a lot of different adjustments and we were just really proud. We were very excited to share that with everybody,” said Williams.

The cast and crew agreed that they had created a blueprint for what live theatre might look like in these uncertain times.

“I think now the whole country knows because of us that this is even possible,” said Williams.

The students also recognized that there may even be some benefits to going virtual. For example, the reach of a virtual show is much broader than that of an in-person one.

“I think it’s a great thing that it was online because everybody who has a computer or a phone and access to the link can be engaged … some of my family doesn’t get to come out and see me perform as often as I would like, and now there’s no excuses,” said Williams.

Alberg touched on the increased accessibility of virtual shows, which can be enhanced by closed captioning and accessed by those whose special needs may otherwise prevent them from physically sitting in an audience.

“Especially now that so many theatre professionals are out of work, we know now that it doesn’t have to be the end of [full-fledged performance] … If we can keep working towards this, it could become something really cool in the future especially for accessibility needs,” added Alberg. “It was something that started out as a stressful ‘I don’t know if we’re gonna be able to do this’ thing that turned into ‘maybe this could be the beginning of changing performance in the future even after this pandemic is over and we can go back to interacting with human beings in public again.”

The show, like any other live performance, was not perfect. At times, the volume of the music overpowered the actors’ voices. The Snapchat lenses would occasionally disappear from an actor’s face when they turned to the side, only to reappear when they faced forward. But the show was a reminder of why the students of the School of Theatre, Dance, and Performance Studies chose the career path they did.

Performance art has the ability to awe, to expose audiences to new perspectives and to transport people into a different reality. But it exists chiefly as a means of bringing people together. And this is exactly what the cast and crew of “She Kills Monsters” accomplished – thousands of people all over the world, experiencing one of the most trying events in recent memory, sharing an hour of respite from their seclusion and supporting the next generation of artists in the process.

Ceoli Jacoby is a sophomore in the University of Maryland’s Philip Merrill College of Journalism. On campus, she is a features writer for Stories Beneath the Shell and a section editor at Unwind Magazine. She is also a member of Mezumenet, UMD’s all-female Jewish a cappella group. During the Fall 2020 semester, she was an intern at Mid-Atlantic Media, where she contributed to both Washington FAMILY Magazine and Montgomery Magazine.