After the Rehersal

Wind drives leaves across the road.
Mozart’s Requiem remains in my mind’s ear.
It remains in my ear’s mind and has become a tree of human voices.
The wind drives the leaves across the road, ahead, in my car’s beam.
I hear the tree of voices die.
I hear it fall away voice by voice in the wind.
The tree is bare but for the boom of one last leaf-voice.
Then that too joins the wind as I open the door of the laundry room.

by J.R. Solonche
author of Beautiful Day
Deerbrook Editions, 2015
Beautiful Day

This is one of a few poems J.R. sent not in the collection that is Beautiful Day.

A review of Beautiful Day that appeared in The Lake.

Another poem delighted in on Wherewithall.

Freeing the Hook, poetry by Peter Harris

Here are two favorite poems from Freeing the Hook by Peter Harris. Although this title has been out for a couple of years I want to bring attention to the work because books don’t get discovered without this posting, and it seems folks want to see the work, so what better way then to put pages up.

Peter is a special poet that writes from the heart. These are a couple of sentences from the back cover:

Freeing The Hook takes you on a backstage tour of love, death, family and solitude. Their dark, inquisitive, tender humor is our immunization. Their stubborn compassion is our salvation.

—Tony Hoagland

Freeing the Hook by Peter Harris

Freeing the Hook features a painting by John Marin

Poem by Peter Harris

The Long Answer

poetry by Peter Harris

The Long Answer page 2

Poetry by Peter Harris

Fish Story

In Memory of Naphtali, Gilad, and Eyal by Omer Zamir

I’ve been meaning to post something of this young mans work since he contacted the press back in March. He has a few videos of him reading and hopefully the audio comes through with the embed. I’m also posting a review from Gadfly Online below. Omer’s MS Apotheosis of a Generation is under consideration and this poem is in the collection.

 

Omer Zamir’s collection of poems is deeply reflective and conscientious of the surrounding world. While each poem possesses an individual voice, together they all form a well-bodied collection, critical of the speaker’s generation. In an interesting move, the speaker of these poems critiques society while maintaining his place in it, achieved by the consistent use of “we.” This is a powerful strategy, establishing familiarity with the reader, rallying him to join the speaker’s fight. Everyone – speaker, reader, everyday denizen – has something at stake. Zamir crafts these poems extremely well, with particular attention to form and style. “No Hero to Emulate” benefits from an unexpected cheerleading trope, utilizing a peppy, positive team-mentality to depict a desolate world. The fiery diction of “Un-fathered” mimics the barren society the speaker perceives, isolated from the past and with no real hope of a future. Perhaps the star of the collection is “Adrenaline,” which is written as a villanelle. Zamir turns this typically pastoral, nostalgic form on its head, allowing the repetition to build tension and emphasize the speaker’s acrimony towards his complacent, lethargic generation. With a clear understanding of craft, Omer Zamir’s poetry is immensely engaging and sure to spark interest.

Allison Bohan

Associate Editor, Gadfly Online

 

Futility

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?

—Wilfred Owen

Still poetry month, the bird is my bell

Three new titles for poetry available now on the Website at deerbrookeditions.com all are accomplished poets. They Join the rank of Deerbrook poets, all of whom garner recognition in some way. In the spirit of poetry month (aren’t we lucky, the powers that be give us a full month to wave the poetry flag).

Wars Don't happen Anymore by Sarah White

Sarah White’s poems resonate the irony of glory and human love.

Beautiful Day by JR Solonche

Beautiful Day by JR Solonche has delight and sorrow, insights and more.

Poetry is like getting dropped off in New Orleans.

A passing by Joan I. Siegel

Meditations on what cannot be seen, the music of memory.

The birds can sing and I get them.

But except in dreams

we are never really free. As the song goes. Don’t dreams have a way of working for us creatively and by sorting out big questions of the self? Interpretations are best left to the dreamer and not those who want to make symbols and apply them as meanings to be used again as from a dream dictionary. That is not to say that images will not turn up from ideas, memories, ancient art, alchemy, initiations, stories, and myths. They can make questions bigger or show us something we pondered about in more simple terms, whether or not they actually answer any questions at all, it may be enough to be engaged in thinking about our lives from a dream perspective.

Here is a favorite poem from Where it Goes by Martina Reisz Newberry.

A Cete of Badgers, a Sleuth of Bears

Flint

FLINT       for Penelope

 

The tears. Where would we be
without the brine of tears?
Tasted blurred vision,
pain relinquished, escaping slowly,
heart waste, basted,
tears wrung out, dry tears,
tear upon tear,
tears that will not fall
even in our sleep
from what well of hearts
run down cold window panes,
late November fog,
brain fog, lifted,
sweat on the cold
metal of the mind,
cobweb of relished dreams
glimmering in morning sun,
redemptive tears.

 

Prayer I Should Have Prayed Last Night

Prayer I Should Have Prayed Last Night
by Stuart Kestenbaum from Prayers & Run-on Sentences

When I wake I am still carrying the night with me,
the trembling wind we are awash in, and the wind
outside howls or does what the wind does, which is
not howl but knit trees and leaves together with clouds
and lash the sun together with the moon. I am only
imagining this because I haven’t studied my science today
and so can’t tell the truth of things, I can only tell
what I am making up at this moment when the darkness
departs like a wave receding, and the sea is absorbed
in the dense sand, which lightens as the water travels away,
the same way I lay awake in my bed last night, fear
washing over me and seeping into the mattress,
my vessel, my washed-up raft.

 

 

Since first posting this poem a bright moment occurred:

Stuart Kestenbaum’s new book Only Now had a poem Prayer for Joy, appear on American Life in Poetry, and therefore also on the Poetry Foundation — Also, find the poem Prayer for the Dead, that appeared in 2007 from Prayers & Run-on Sentences 

Thanks to Ted Kooser

This morning’s favorite poem from Prayers & Run-on Sentences, (published in 2007 by Deerbrook Editions, with a number of poems read on The Writer’s Almanac, and is still popularstruck me for the sense of angst but more a reminder of a humanity-even condition faced over space and time, day, night, morning, how one sense of these is flipped over across the globe, this morning is that evening when prayers are not made for an answer but for the connection we cannot find in our fear, in our solitude and longing, to not have missed or be blotted out, to continue in the great moment.

The hopeful have it, not to be compared or limited, marginalized but joined in some silent underground that reasons away violence as a way out when truth and compassion succeed, which means us folk have chosen a spirit of light, forgiveness . . . right you say, like in your dreams, you say, if ever a dream would remove the barrier from your eye, your heart, that man might undo the violence, tooth for tooth, you say, it’s just the way it is, my friend.

On 9/11, one mad said, “How inhuman,” and his friend said, “all too human my friend, all too human.”