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.

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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.”

Parallel

You get on.

You don’t see me.

You take the seat two rows in front of me.

I see your backside, the back of your head, your dark brown, somewhat frizzed and wavy hair. For some reason, I don’t tap you on the back, or your shoulder (I see you turn around—surprised, smiling, your eyes sparkling, an underwater cavernous limestone blue—‘Hey, when did you get on?’ you ask, and try to stand up as you jolt forward, your body leaving your seat, as you find a way to balance yourself and move toward me)—but I stay still, and we remain where we are.

I watch you. I don’t see your face. It’s a strange feeling, as if I were no longer me, or were somewhere else completely, or I had simply disappeared, evaporated, from here and now. It occurs to me I had never up until then, seen you. In your completeness.

In your solitude.

I wonder what you are like without me.

Yourself plus the world minus me.

 

by HC Hsu

from Middle of the Night, a book in the works to appear from Deerbrook Editions sometime in 2015
also author of Love is Sweeter, http://lethepressbooks.com/

He also has a translation of Chinese dissident and 2010 Nobel Peace Prize winner Liu Xiaobo’s official biography coming out in 2015 by Rowman & Littlefield.

Improves with age

The life of the persimmon could be literary. Persimmons are the edible fruit of a number of species of trees in the genus Diospyros. The word Diospyros comes from the ancient Greek words “Dios” (διός) and “pyros” (πυρος). In context, this means more or less “divine fruit”, though its literal meaning is closer to “Wheat of Zeus”.[2][3] It is, however, sufficiently confusing to have given rise to some curious interpretations, such as “God’s pear” and “Jove’s fire”. The Modern Greek name for the fruit is λωτός (lotos) which leads modern Greeks to the assumption that this is the lotus referred to in Homer‘sOdyssey.

Persimmons ripen over time.

This blog was set up to carry literature, selected poetry and prose, from submissions to Deerbrook Editions, (http://www.deerbrookeditions.com and https://deerbrookeditions.wordpress.com) an independent literary press publishing deserving authors in well designed trade books. Author’s work will be selected and permitted by the author or in the case of a selection having been published, posting would give whatever promotion  and credit to the published work as such a blog might offer. WordPress.com blogs seem to offer somewhat greater exposure through the use of tags.