Corn Maze, poem by David Barber

CORN MAZE
by David Barber

Here is where
You can get nowhere
Faster than ever
As you go under
Deeper and deeper

In the fertile smother
Of another acre
Like any other
You can’t peer over
And then another

And everywhere
You veer or hare
There you are
Farther and farther
Afield than before

But on you blunder
In the verdant meander
As if   the answer
To looking for cover
Were to bewilder

Your inner minotaur
And near and far were
Neither here nor there
And where you are
Is where you were

SOURCE: Poetry (March 2013).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: David Barber is the poetry editor at The Atlantic. His first book The Spirit Level (Northwestern, 1995) was published as a winner of the Terrence Des Pres Prize. Barber’s poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Field, Georgia Review, The New England Review, The New Republic, Paris Review, Poetry, and Virginia Quarterly Review. His reviews and articles have appeared in The Boston Globe, The New York Times Book Review, The Washington Post, The New Criterion, Parnassus, and elsewhere. He lives near Boston. His most recent poetry collection is Wonder Cabinet (Northwestern University Press, 2006), available at Amazon.com.

A Lover, poem by Amy Lowell

A LOVER
by Amy Lowell

If I could catch the green lantern of a firefly
I could see to write you a letter.

SOURCE: Poetry (March 1917).

IMAGE: Still from animated feature Grave of the Fireflies (1988).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Amy Lowell (1874-1925) was an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.

Summer Rains, haiku by Matsuo Basho

SUMMER RAINS
by Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Early summer rains
so heavy
they obscure the waterfall

ART: “Rain,” woodblock by Hirokazu Fukuda. Limited edition prints available at new.uniquejapan.com.

ABOUT THE ARTIST: Hirokazu Fukuda (1944-2004) was born and raised in the Tochigi prefecture, an area about an hour north of Tokyo surrounded by mountains and hills to the east, west, and north, with the Kanto Plains lie to the south. Hirokazu planned to become a professional classic guitarist but suffered a hand injury at a young age. Seeking a medium to express his creativity, he first worked with the canvas, then moved on to become a master woodblock artist. According to family and friends, he always hoped that his work would touch the heart of those around him.

June Moon, poem by Daniel McGinn

JUNE MOON
by Daniel McGinn

Today was sheltered
in a marine layer, we waded through
a sea without shadows.

Today I made a donation
for the funeral of a friend
killed by a drunk driver.

Tonight I watched a mouse escape from my dog.
I watched pink feet and black fur blur across concrete.
Tonight I saw the moon
poke its head out from the clouds
a black mist began rising up like a cape
to cover the chin, the lips, the teeth…

Lori asked me,
Does the moon always show us the same face
or does it sometimes show us other faces?
I don’t know, I said and we marveled
at how clouds had misshapen the moon’s skull.
It looked dented and pockmarked.
It looked like it had been kicked
and kicked repeatedly.

Feral kittens under my house began to yowl.
My dog ran zigzags
and barked and barked and barked.
A mouse squeezed her body into a hole in a brick wall,
a tight passage, small as a pencil spine,
then the mouse was gone.

No lights twinkled.
The moon turned dark as a dime
dropped down a slot.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Daniel McGinn’s writing has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies including So Luminous the Wildflowers and Beyond the Valley of the Contemporary Poets. He was a journalist for the East Whittier Review, the OC Weekly and Next Magazine. He has hosted poetry shows across Southern California and performed at a variety of venues such as The Bowery Poetry Club in NYC and The Fuse in Philadelphia. Five of his chapbooks have been included in the Laguna Poets Series. 1,000 Black Umbrellas, his full length book of poetry, was published in 2012 by Write Bloody Publishing. “June Moon” and other writing by Daniel McGinn appears in the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology (2013).

PAINTING: “La page blanche” (“The white page”) by René Magritte (1967).

The Month of June, poem by Pablo Neruda

THE MONTH OF JUNE
by Pablo Neruda

Green was the silence, 
wet was the light
the month of June
trembled like a butterfly. 

SOURCE: 100 Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda

IMAGE: “Little Butterfly” by Angela Doelling. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was the pen name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftali Ricardo ReyesBasoalto. He chose his pseudonym after Czech poet Jan Neruda. In 1971, Pablo Neruda won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda often wrote in green ink because it was his personal symbol of desire and hope. Gabriel García Márquez called him “the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language.”

Wildflower, poem by Stanley Plumly

WILDFLOWER
by Stanley Plumly

Some—the ones with fish names—grow so north
they last a month, six weeks at most.
Some others, named for the fields they look like,
last longer, smaller.

And these, in particular, whether trout or corn lily,
onion or bellwort, just cut
this morning and standing open in tapwater in the kitchen,
will close with the sun.

It is June, wildflowers on the table.
They are fresh an hour ago, like sliced lemons,
with the whole day ahead of them.
They could be common mayflower lilies of the valley,

day lilies, or the clustering Canada, large, gold,
long-stemmed as pasture roses, belled out over the vase–
or maybe Solomon’s seal, the petals
ranged in small toy pairs

or starry, tipped at the head like weeds.
They could be anonymous as weeds.
They are, in fact, the several names of the same thing,
lilies of the field, butter-and-eggs,

toadflax almost, the way the whites and yellows juxtapose,
and have “the look of flowers that are looked at,”
rooted as they are in water, glass, and air.
I remember the summer I picked everything,

flower and wildflower, singled them out in jars
with a name attached. And when they had dried as stubborn
as paper I put them on pages and named them again.
They were all lilies, even the hyacinth,

even the great pale flower in the hand of the dead.
I picked it, kept it in the book for years
before I knew who she was,
her face lily-white, kissed and dry and cold.

 ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Stanley Plumly was born in Barnesville, Ohio, in 1939, and grew up in the lumber and farming regions of Virginia and Ohio. His work has been honored with the Delmore Schwartz Memorial Award and nominations for the National Book Critics Circle Award, the William Carlos Williams Award, and the Academy of Amerian Poets’ Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. He is currently a Distinguished University Professor and Professor of English at the University of Maryland. His poetry appeared in the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology (2013).

PAINTING: “In the Meadow” by Claude Monet (1876)

Fortune Has Its Cookies to Give Out, poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

FORTUNE HAS ITS COOKIES TO GIVE OUT
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Fortune

                   has its cookies to give out

which is a good thing

                    since its been a long time since

         that summer in Brooklyn

     when they closed off the street

             one hot day

                and the
                     FIREMEN

                         turned on their hoses

    and all the kids ran out in it

     in the middle of the street

      and there were

                maybe a couple dozen of us

                                   out there

with the water squirting up

                      to the

                         sky

                               and all over

                                         us

     there was maybe only six of us

                           kids altogether

               running around in our

                         barefeet and birthday

          suits

                 and I remember Molly but then

           the firemen stopped squirting their hoses

                 all of a sudden and went

                      back in

               their firehouse

                        and

          started playing pinochle again

               just as if nothing

                    had ever

                          happened

     while I remember Molly
                      looked at me and

          ran in

     because I guess really we were the only ones there

Photo: “Summer, Lower East Side, Manhattan, 1937″ (detail) by Arthur Fellig, AKA Weegee.

Free on Weds., 9/18, Kindle Version of Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology

To celebrate the last week of summer — though in Los Angeles, summer never really ends — we are offering a FREE Kindle version of the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology on Wednesday, Sept. 18, 2013. The collection features summer-related poetry & prose from over 70 established and up-and-coming writers around the world — including some classic authors from the past. 

Find your free Kindle of the Silver Birch Press Summer Anthology at Amazon.com. (If you don’t have a Kindle device, get free kindle reading apps for your computer at this link.)

We would appreciate any reblogs, tweets, or Facebook posts about this offer! 

The Poetry of Potato Salad by O.P.W. Fredericks

THE POETRY OF POTATO SALAD
by O.P.W. Fredericks

Making a good bowl potato salad is not unlike writing a good poem. The selection of ingredients are important to both. When selecting the potato there are many varieties, russet, white, red, and yukon gold to name just a few, are like selecting the right words. Do I peel them or leave the skins on? Do I expose the meaning immediately, or conceal it in a thin layer that must be savored for all its flavor. Are they in big pieces or small, bumpy or smooth, old or new?

For the basic ingredients of potatoes and words they have to feel right, but they must be given the opportunity to sit a spell and be spelled right. How do I want to dress them, plain with mayo, salt and pepper, monorhyme, strophes and periods; or do I add the extras; celery and commas, onion and Ottava rima, hard boiled or Haiku – scrambled or Spondee? Do I use eggs and Enclosed Rhyme at all? A little mustard with your Meter might be nice, or sliced pickles of poetic diction, but do I want a sweet sestina or the dill of dactyls? Paprika you say, well why not some prose, if for nothing else, color is pleasing to the eye. Capers in couplets? Why not. Crumbled bacon is always nice as is a comedic ballad.

Finally there’s the presentation. Enjambment and enjoyment, how does it taste? Do you savor their flavor on the tongue as you chew, or do you swallow them greedily intent to get your fill? Are they deserving of study to appreciate the subtle complexities in the flavor of the words?

It’s up to you.

Visit the author’s blog at opwfredericks.com.

ABOUT O.P.W. FREDERICKS (in the author’s own words): I was called the nursing profession in the fall of 1976. After thirty-two years of caring for the sick and injured at the bedside and in other capacities, I chose a new path, that of writer and poet. As I embark on this new journey I continue to walk the path of nurse, though in a lesser capacity during this time of transition. I cannot help but be influenced by the teachings from my professors, but more so by the people I have known as patients and fellow human beings.

Watercolor: “Feta potato salad with garlic, chives, and tomatoes” by Debra Morris, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Find a recipe for Feta Potato Salad at thecornerkitchen.com.

Pink Lemonade, poem by Juan Olivarez

PINK LEMONADE
poem by Juan Olivarez

In the shade of my live oak tree, 

Drinking pink lemonade.

Just about as laid back as can be, 

Oh boy, I really got it made.

 
A little tart, a little sweet,
Best batch Elvira’s ever made.

Time to get off my tired feet, 

With a cold glass of lemonade.


 
I could use a cookie, I suppose, 

But I don’t want to leave this shade.

Maybe later, after I repose, 

Right now I’ll sip my lemonade.

ABOUT POET JUAN OLIVAREZ (in his own words): I was born in Nyssa, Oregon, while my parents who were farm workers were picking cherries and working in the potato fields in Idaho. I grew up in Mission, Texas, and attended Mission High, scool where I first attempted to write poetry. While in high school, I had two poems published in Focus magazine, “What is War” in 1972 and “The Clouds” in 1973. I have been in public service in my home town of Alton, Texas, as city alderman, police commissioner, and mayor pro tem. I love to play chess, play the guitar, cook, and my other true love — fishing. My first love has and always will be my wife Elvira McAllen, who against her better judgement decided to say yes when I asked her to marry me in 1973. We have six children, two marines, two musicians, a teacher, and my youngest who is currently in California in the place I love so much, the Mojave Desert. 

For more poems by Juan Olivarez, visit poemhunter.com.

Illustration: “Pink Lemonade” by Ranger Kat, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED