Yes! kicks off its Fall 2010 season with three wonderful writers. Please join us for an evening of delight!
Poem by Jennifer Karmin author of aaaaaaaaaalice
desk / a table frame or case esp. for writing and reading
the alphabet a a a a a a a lot
comes after a box of papers some
things to do lots of things to do get
things done in the real world get things
done in my world a calendar is useful
a good invention pens books what else
bills letters to send postcards stamps
lists and lists of everything notebooks
full of ideas learn to play chess work on paintings
film to develop a tape recorder mom plays o sue zanna
mail always comes try to decide what should go
in every drawer everyone has a junk drawer
i am organized and not very organized
Excerpt from Maryrose Larkin’s Late Winter 30
The pressure of facing the why section when I wanted horizon
pressure dropped winter angle face and spring 50% pushed
through grey replacing from the top and patchy
no winter or late winter
shiver cover some can never
Late one in whirl no opposite morning cross struck pink
change insoluble atmosphere east facing mothering under
but not mother not cinders not mocking pushed into wings
late suffer other petal synoptic surface shadow and 50% no 50
pansies no 30 pansies silver light on the fence
rain the written
Sarah Giragosian’s “The Glass Squid”
Nearly unseen, so limpid
as to be lost, the glass squid
is a genius of minimalism;
even its outthrust eyes conceal their long shadows,
their undersides casting forth light as from street lamps
and effacing their structures.
The glass squid never outgrows
its safe, calflike translucence,
although I wonder if it feels quite safe
when it passes its predators: moire chambers
with electric lures and waving, tentacled things
that shiver against seaweeds
or medusa heads, trawling
or still. Night is a fiction
below, yet the darkness that the diver
caught on camera could be in a Caravaggio.
There’s a cost to see the squid’s eyes tricked into sight;
its dark, broadside world was lit
for an instant not by light
of its design. Was it scared?
Some survive with minds that are semaphores
of alarm, while others cope with a force–violent
and vestigial–that nests above in neural
readiness, quick to transmit
its misprision, as in love.
I look as if at a sphinx,
as if we’re bound together in exam
or fugue, while some strange atavism vies within.
Configured so, I soon look away, though masked eyes
can look as through a glass seal.
YES, READING! 