The following poem was just published by Three Line Poetry for inclusion in Issue 3:
So long had it been
Since I held a spring blossom--
I had forgotten.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Five poems published in The Beatnik
This year is turning out to be a good year for publication for me! In addition to having a poem ("Thoughts While Viewing Van Gogh's 'Fishing Boats...'") published in the journal Do Not Look at the Sun, five poems of mine were published in the on-line journal, The Beatnik. The poems are: "Claudia Greets Me in the Morning," "Dead Roses," "Rain Falls from a Somber Sky," "Reading Li Po on a Winter Day," and "Age Pares the Fruit of Life." Both journals are on-line; both provided links to my blog page, which has resulted in more traffic on this site. Thank you to the journal editors, and to readers for following those links.
The poems in The Beatnik are available here: http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/2011/03/michael-ratcliffe-five-poems.html
I've currently got poems out for review at Little Patuxent Review and You Are Here: the Journal of Creative Geography, both journals in which I've published previously. Keeping my fingers crossed for a few more published poems.
January 14, 2012 Update: the poems out for review at the Little Patuxent Review and You Are Here were not accepted for publication.
The poems in The Beatnik are available here: http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/2011/03/michael-ratcliffe-five-poems.html
I've currently got poems out for review at Little Patuxent Review and You Are Here: the Journal of Creative Geography, both journals in which I've published previously. Keeping my fingers crossed for a few more published poems.
January 14, 2012 Update: the poems out for review at the Little Patuxent Review and You Are Here were not accepted for publication.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
CLAUDIA GREETS ME IN THE MORNING
[Published in The Beatnik, March 26, 2011, on-line at http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/]
CLAUDIA GREETS ME IN THE MORNING
Claudia greets me in the morning
with coffee and half a smile,
eyes downcast somewhere
between sadness and a different place.
I am there also,
only closer to sadness,
knowing no other place to be.
I stare out the café window,
at all the purposeful people
on their way to purposeful days;
it hurts to look at them
in the morning sun's glare,
so I follow Claudia
as she shuttles between tables and kitchen,
taking orders, pouring coffee,
delivering food,
while the manager shouts her round the restaurant—
"Claudia, pick up!"
"Claudia, new customer!"
"Claudia, clear that table over there!"
Claudia looks my way.
I sense a glance that says
take me away from here,
take me to another place,
and I want the same from her,
but neither of us says a word
as Claudia pours me another cup of coffee.
CLAUDIA GREETS ME IN THE MORNING
Claudia greets me in the morning
with coffee and half a smile,
eyes downcast somewhere
between sadness and a different place.
I am there also,
only closer to sadness,
knowing no other place to be.
I stare out the café window,
at all the purposeful people
on their way to purposeful days;
it hurts to look at them
in the morning sun's glare,
so I follow Claudia
as she shuttles between tables and kitchen,
taking orders, pouring coffee,
delivering food,
while the manager shouts her round the restaurant—
"Claudia, pick up!"
"Claudia, new customer!"
"Claudia, clear that table over there!"
Claudia looks my way.
I sense a glance that says
take me away from here,
take me to another place,
and I want the same from her,
but neither of us says a word
as Claudia pours me another cup of coffee.
ODDS AND ENDS
(various haiku and tanka and a few deviations from strict form)
End of day, and now
the sound of rushing water
as I sat creek-side,
the warm sun and peaceful breeze--
just a cold night memory.
__________________________
Lavender and teal--
the colors of the dawn sky.
You are still asleep.
__________________________
Peach and blue today.
You are still asleep, while I
enjoy dawn alone.
__________________________
I sit on the pier;
the river flows slowly past.
So much like my life.
__________________________
River laps on shore,
a light breeze cools my body.
I don't want to leave.
__________________________
Calm water, light breeze;
quiet morning on the pier
writing simple lines
of haiku and tanka
while everyone else sleeps.
__________________________
Gray fisherman wading along our beach
how awkward you look,
and yet a certain majesty
as you stand motionless
Observing.
___________________________
Walking Columbus,
I think I may have taken
a wrong direction.
(written after walking along Columbus Street in San Francisco)
___________________________
She leaned against me,
then turned slowly in my arms
and kissed me softly.
I could not force my mind
to remain within the dream.
__________________________
White snow on green grass;
clouds obscure the dawning sun--
a New Year begins.
__________________________
Clouds part; sun lights way.
I resolve to not resolve.
A New Year begins.
__________________________
Dead roses lie on the table,
still bundled as they came from the store.
For want of water, they withered.
__________________________
End of day, and now
the sound of rushing water
as I sat creek-side,
the warm sun and peaceful breeze--
just a cold night memory.
__________________________
Lavender and teal--
the colors of the dawn sky.
You are still asleep.
__________________________
Peach and blue today.
You are still asleep, while I
enjoy dawn alone.
__________________________
I sit on the pier;
the river flows slowly past.
So much like my life.
__________________________
River laps on shore,
a light breeze cools my body.
I don't want to leave.
__________________________
Calm water, light breeze;
quiet morning on the pier
writing simple lines
of haiku and tanka
while everyone else sleeps.
__________________________
Gray fisherman wading along our beach
how awkward you look,
and yet a certain majesty
as you stand motionless
Observing.
___________________________
Walking Columbus,
I think I may have taken
a wrong direction.
(written after walking along Columbus Street in San Francisco)
___________________________
She leaned against me,
then turned slowly in my arms
and kissed me softly.
I could not force my mind
to remain within the dream.
__________________________
White snow on green grass;
clouds obscure the dawning sun--
a New Year begins.
__________________________
Clouds part; sun lights way.
I resolve to not resolve.
A New Year begins.
__________________________
Dead roses lie on the table,
still bundled as they came from the store.
For want of water, they withered.
__________________________
Saturday, March 5, 2011
FRIDAY PRAYERS
[Published on the Dead Beats Literary Blog, October 16, 2012]
FRIDAY PRAYERS
Late afternoon sun behind him,
his cab parked at the curb
outside the station;
his rug laid neatly on the sidewalk
between the parking meters,
he stands,eyes closed,
right hand on the left across his chest,
making his intentions known to his heart,
unaware of commuters
walking past, on their way home.
He bows, hands on knees,
and says, Allahu akbar—God is great—
then kneels and bows, head to ground.
He rises to his knees, then bows again,
continuing his prayers
as pedestrians pass by.
Prayers over, he rolls his rug,
and returns to his cab,
to wait for a fare.
Peace be upon us
and the mercy of Allah.
FRIDAY PRAYERS
Late afternoon sun behind him,
his cab parked at the curb
outside the station;
his rug laid neatly on the sidewalk
between the parking meters,
he stands,eyes closed,
right hand on the left across his chest,
making his intentions known to his heart,
unaware of commuters
walking past, on their way home.
He bows, hands on knees,
and says, Allahu akbar—God is great—
then kneels and bows, head to ground.
He rises to his knees, then bows again,
continuing his prayers
as pedestrians pass by.
Prayers over, he rolls his rug,
and returns to his cab,
to wait for a fare.
Peace be upon us
and the mercy of Allah.
THE FOOD TRUCK
[Published in Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2012]
THE FOOD TRUCK
The immigrant in his food truck,
parked at the edge of the lot,
sells reminders of home--
pupusas, tamales, tortillas--
to hungry laborers coming off shifts,
or waiting for work in the morning light;
to men whose families wait back home
for the monthly remittance,
or the fee for the coyotes to bring them North.
His foods remind him
of the land he farmed
and the corn he grew,
like his ancestors,
long before the Spanish,
and before the flood
of cheap corn from America.
His farm is now a memory;
views of his fields replaced by
parking lots, construction sites,
and the faces of men like him,
looking for something to take them back home.
THE FOOD TRUCK
The immigrant in his food truck,
parked at the edge of the lot,
sells reminders of home--
pupusas, tamales, tortillas--
to hungry laborers coming off shifts,
or waiting for work in the morning light;
to men whose families wait back home
for the monthly remittance,
or the fee for the coyotes to bring them North.
His foods remind him
of the land he farmed
and the corn he grew,
like his ancestors,
long before the Spanish,
and before the flood
of cheap corn from America.
His farm is now a memory;
views of his fields replaced by
parking lots, construction sites,
and the faces of men like him,
looking for something to take them back home.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Do Not Look at the Sun
The Spring 2011 issue of Do Not Look at the Sun is now available. This issue includes my poem "Thoughts While Viewing Van Gogh's 'Fishing Boats on the Beach at Les Saintes Maries-de-la-Mer'."
Issue #5 is titled "Post Cards from Paris." From the website: "Every poem/ fragment/ photo/ painting that was selected for this issue was made into a postcard. It was then copied, printed and posted to people and places around the world. Some addresses were taken from mail-art mailing lists, others from postcard projects such as postcrossing (www.postcrossing.com), some were sent to subscribers of DNLATS, others to those suggested by the contributors themselves. They were also hand delivered to hundreds of random mailboxes throughout Paris and London."
The idea of printing poems on postcards and mailing them to random locations around the world was really appealing to me. I mean, if you can't make money off poetry, you should at least have fun. Check out the issue, purchase a copy, and keep innovative journals like this in business.
Issue #5 is titled "Post Cards from Paris." From the website: "Every poem/ fragment/ photo/ painting that was selected for this issue was made into a postcard. It was then copied, printed and posted to people and places around the world. Some addresses were taken from mail-art mailing lists, others from postcard projects such as postcrossing (www.postcrossing.com), some were sent to subscribers of DNLATS, others to those suggested by the contributors themselves. They were also hand delivered to hundreds of random mailboxes throughout Paris and London."
The idea of printing poems on postcards and mailing them to random locations around the world was really appealing to me. I mean, if you can't make money off poetry, you should at least have fun. Check out the issue, purchase a copy, and keep innovative journals like this in business.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
