Poetry Corner
Section Editor: Mare Leonard
Mare Leonard lives and works in the Hudson Valley where she is an Associate of the Institute for Writing and Thinking and the MAT programs at Bard College. Her latest chapbook, The Dark Inside My Hooded Coat, was published in 2018 at Finishing Line Press. Find reviews on her Facebook Page: Mare Leonard Poet and message Mare for a copy.
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"When was the last time you selected a book of poems to read or ordered one from the library? Poetry is dismissed in our culture. With Poetry Corner, we are hoping to share a taste of poems that will make you think, laugh or wonder. We will also post monthly readings, events, and classes in the Hudson Valley Region of New York and beyond." ~ Mare Leonard Attention Readers:
If you would like us to post a nonprofit or FREE community event in Poetry Corner, please send a note to: seniorstaff@sanctuary-magazine.com For-profit events will also be posted for a small fee. Please inquire. |
EVENTS
CAPS Calendar Hudson Valley, NY Bowery Poetry: Open Mic (see calendar listings) New York, NY Poetry Near You: Poets.org Poetry Events throughout US Poetry Open Mics Find virtual open mics poetry in your local area in the U.S. and Canada. |
January 2023: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Poems this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
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Fighting Spirit
by Elizabeth Fairleigh Crying bird What is wrong? This is not a happy song. Something’s wrong. You’ve lost your way. I want to help But can’t today. It hurts my heart to leave you there So distressed Deep despair. What can I do to ease your pain? No more of this can you sustain. Grim reality setting in. No idea where you’ve been or what to do. Now tide is high And nature paints her blood red sky. I must leave you now. But first a prayer. It’s not because I do not care. Hope to God you are spared. And home you fly. Your soul laid bare. |
Reflection
by Elizabeth Fairleigh Mirror, mirror on the wall, Looking back at me. I stare into the crystal ball. Strange reflection I recall. Who is this I see? Mirror, mirror on the wall. Spirits floating in the hall, Dying to be free. I stare into the crystal ball. Now I’m standing six feet tall, Towering over thee. Mirror, mirror on the wall: This is not my face at all. Do one and one make three? I stare into the crystal ball. Will you catch me if I fall, Or will you let me be? Mirror, mirror on the wall, I stare into the crystal ball. |
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Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh is a former journalist and award-winning newspaper editor. She has been writing poetry since she was 14. Over the years she has written more than 125 poems and is compiling them into a book titled The E Collection: Poems from the Heart, which her artistic daughter will illustrate. When not writing poems, she runs a PR firm, thE Connection. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband of 27 years. Together they have a daughter who is a senior at the University of Georgia, a leopard gecko named Leona, a fire bellied toad, and an aquarium full of tropical fish! |
ARCHIVES 2022
November 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Irene Backalenick
Poems this month by Irene Backalenick
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Migration
by Irene Backalenick The story of all peoples Is the story of migration For ten thousand years or more We’ve swept across the globe Seeking hunting grounds Or lands of milk and honey Sanctioned by our gods We’ve spread our seed Reaching aborigines With conquest, rape and purpose Or with more gentle unions Mixing language, sperm and culture Thus we’ve changed the planet With endless immigration Multi-layered, multi-colored Neither good nor evil But a history of mankind Holy Cow!
by Irene Backalenick A Sicilian tour So memorable Glittering moments Dizzying views And cliff-hung towns But tummy cramps erupt My own Mt. Etna Within an ancient church Following directions I rush to find the lav Flinging wide the door There he sits, man of the cloth His cassock pulled up high Skinny shanks, ancient buttocks Wrinkled face quite bright Eye to eye we meet A moment of eternity Then I close the door And softly creep away |
Survival
by Irene Backalenick We walk the lavish gardens Its owner at our side A courtly handsome man Who serves as escort And points to special plantings A thriving population Within his far-flung kingdom. But etched upon his face Are lines of history. Irony and skepticism Burst forth in sudden laughs Aimed mostly at himself. How far this man has come From early Polish days Born amidst the Holocaust A ragged child who survived In hidden haystacks, hovels, caves Entombed…or nearly so He now commands a paradise And his statements hurled aloft Defy the ancient gods Curling upward through his trees These prayers…if indeed they’re prayers… Soar skyward, ever higher A mix of wariness and joy. |
Irene Backalenick is a poet and retired, longtime freelance journalist and theater critic from Connecticut. She began writing poetry in her early 90s and has since published two books of poetry, Rueful Reflections, Book 1 and Rueful Reflections, Book 2. Irene wrote for numerous national publications, including The New York Times. In 1975, she received a New York Times Publishers Award. Irene was also selected as Sanctuary's Featured Artist this month.
October 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Roberta Curley
Lingering Voices
by Roberta Curley
Now I listen for their lilting voices….
my three brothers — my rocks.
Always a blessing in my life,
They steer a course once
captained by Mom and Pop.
Back then we kids sprang from
our mattresses each morning.
Our folk’s king-sized bed served
as playground and trampoline.
Bursting to life like butterflies,
we trembled to seek flight - - -
buoyed later by midair breezes.
Moving forward - - my folks
snoozed like crazy in
their nineties.
The naps a dress rehearsal
for the Big Sleep to come.
Soon I was a one-note nightingale
tooting a flat song.
Mom and Pop’s death a bulldozer -
I, rubble in its path.
My parents abandoned me —
so I felt.
It hurt to look at my bros,
to gab with them,
to capture their tones.
But Mom and Pops’ voices linger.
Family voices heal.
Poem this month by Roberta Curley
Lingering Voices
by Roberta Curley
Now I listen for their lilting voices….
my three brothers — my rocks.
Always a blessing in my life,
They steer a course once
captained by Mom and Pop.
Back then we kids sprang from
our mattresses each morning.
Our folk’s king-sized bed served
as playground and trampoline.
Bursting to life like butterflies,
we trembled to seek flight - - -
buoyed later by midair breezes.
Moving forward - - my folks
snoozed like crazy in
their nineties.
The naps a dress rehearsal
for the Big Sleep to come.
Soon I was a one-note nightingale
tooting a flat song.
Mom and Pop’s death a bulldozer -
I, rubble in its path.
My parents abandoned me —
so I felt.
It hurt to look at my bros,
to gab with them,
to capture their tones.
But Mom and Pops’ voices linger.
Family voices heal.
Roberta Curley has lived in Greenwich Village, New York City for forty-five years. She started writing poetry sixteen years ago when a rhyming poem popped out while journaling. Her work has been published in West View News, The New York Times Metropolitan Diary, Thrive Global, Q Review Anthologies, Tamarind, and Jefferson Market Library Poetry Workshop Anthologies. Her poem “Palm Fronds” appeared in the spring 2019 issue of Penn Review. She has written approximately 150 poems - subjects ranging from pineapples to the pandemic. Contact: rdcurley@gmail.com
September 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Jac Carley
Poems this month by Jac Carley
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Long, too long. O Covid.
by Jac Carley Winter’s tourniquet tightens, it wrings the white out of the only cloud to cut off the throb of dawn, sacrifices a limb of horizon to save the torso of sky. Too grey, this morning. And too long. At the curb a smiley-face mask lies trampled in yesterday’s snow, half buried in grit and grime. A relic, the mandible of a saint? A dismembered warning? I step around it, superstitious. Of course I am afraid of vicious gods’ vengeance, of more pandemonium. |
Long Covid: Danse Macabre
by Jac Carley Squeezed between night’s repeating dry dream and manic goose honks in my brain, the sun rises naked as a dancer swirling around a pole, in light too bright for the time of day. With it comes glisten and sweat, shimmy-shakes and fevered tremolos. My senses are clogged and fogged, I can hardly follow the act on my lap. Echoes pound, resound in the empty lobes where reason dwelled just weeks ago. Tinsel heart is mute, waits for a miracle. Playfulness, my own, dearly departed. The sun drops, curtains fall on another day of fatigue. Hope, I fear, has left the theater. |
Jac Carley is a visual artist and writer. Her career began in the 1980s as cofounder of tanzfabrik berlin. During two decades as a contemporary choreographer in West Berlin, she incorporated dadaist and surrealistic literature in evening-length choreographies that toured extensively. In 1999, working with words overtook her ‘day job,’ and she’s since published four books as well as poetry. Jac is grateful to be a member of the RAR poetry group. In Sanctuary's July issue, Jac shared the inspiration behind her sketch work on braille and her installations presenting the same concept.
August 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Victoria Twomey
A lovely poem to share with our 7th annual Focus on Youth special issue.
Poem this month by Victoria Twomey
A lovely poem to share with our 7th annual Focus on Youth special issue.
Flutter and Glow
by Victoria Twomey
I remember you and me
watched over by those immaculate clouds in their white nanny dresses
the innocent scent of green grass growing thick upon a hill
I can feel the warm breeze
our foreheads together
the tips of my hair touching your shoulder
I know I loved you childlike and pure
pure as golden morning light
the way only a little girl can love a best friend
I loved you naive
like I loved all things
that fluttered and glowed
all things magical
and momentary
like starlight, fairies and fireflies
it was our secret, that shimmering day
when we both sliced an index finger with a blade of sharp grass
brave to the sting, we allowed the crimson line of red to brim
we pressed our fingers together
until our blood intermingled
both saying, at the same time, blood sisters forever
and we meant it
not knowing that when Autumn arrived
I would have to move away
that I would start a bewildering argument with you
leave for another town
never to see or speak with you again
too young to understand it was all part of my lessons
on how to replace a childhood with something safer
how to begin the brittle business of building walls
and so, all these many years later
here I am cradling this poem
like a broken-necked bird, too far gone
wondering if you ever think back
to a hill, a friend, a promise
a belief in forever
by Victoria Twomey
I remember you and me
watched over by those immaculate clouds in their white nanny dresses
the innocent scent of green grass growing thick upon a hill
I can feel the warm breeze
our foreheads together
the tips of my hair touching your shoulder
I know I loved you childlike and pure
pure as golden morning light
the way only a little girl can love a best friend
I loved you naive
like I loved all things
that fluttered and glowed
all things magical
and momentary
like starlight, fairies and fireflies
it was our secret, that shimmering day
when we both sliced an index finger with a blade of sharp grass
brave to the sting, we allowed the crimson line of red to brim
we pressed our fingers together
until our blood intermingled
both saying, at the same time, blood sisters forever
and we meant it
not knowing that when Autumn arrived
I would have to move away
that I would start a bewildering argument with you
leave for another town
never to see or speak with you again
too young to understand it was all part of my lessons
on how to replace a childhood with something safer
how to begin the brittle business of building walls
and so, all these many years later
here I am cradling this poem
like a broken-necked bird, too far gone
wondering if you ever think back
to a hill, a friend, a promise
a belief in forever
Victoria Twomey is a poet and an artist. Her poems have been published in several anthologies, in newspapers and online, including Sanctuary magazine, BigCityLit, PoetryBay, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Verse-Virtual, the Agape Review, and the Trouvaille Review. Her poem "Pieta" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
July 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Melody Wang
Poems this month by Melody Wang
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Goddess by the Sea, Reimagined
by Melody Wang She is in a trance as turbulent forces swirl all around, threatening to drown her and bring her to another realm. The salt air mists upon her face like an insistent visitor pounding at the door of her house after hours. She smiles her secret smile, undeterred. She is the eye of the hurricane, the conductor of this frenzied symphony of waves and wind. She is rooted to the source and throws her arms wide to embrace the unknown, her laughter tinkling like windchimes, hair wild with luminous droplets. She sways in a trance, commanding the discordant notes to rearrange themselves in peculiar harmony. She does not see me, for she is me. Together, we transcend the thrashing waters that carried away the parts of us that weighed us down. In the calm, we remember what we'd forgotten: we are and have always been one with the sea. |
What We Carry
by Melody Wang my mother & I condense a lifetime together into weekly hikes — there are never enough daylight hours we seek out wild rapeseed moss-soft fennel prickly radish leaves that unfurl to fold up gently: we linger in languid afternoon light, traipse from patch to patch squat to forage in a rush all that we recognize as humble nourishment. My mother, eyes wild with huáijiù, plucks tender shoots in eager handfuls, states in a matter-of-fact tone: It is in our DNA this trauma, the need to store up enough food to stave off winters men — cannot and will not ever understand what we carry inside us. In silence we walk the path, heads held high *huáijiù means wistful longing or nostalgia in Mandarin First published by West Trestle Review. |
Melody Wang currently resides in sunny Southern California with her dear husband and wishes it were autumn all year ‘round. Her debut collection of poetry "Night-blooming Cereus" was released in December 2021 with Alien Buddha Press. She can be found on Twitter.
June 2022: Selected Poetry
As part of our "Celebrating the Men in Our Lives" issue, poems by Will Reger
As part of our "Celebrating the Men in Our Lives" issue, poems by Will Reger
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Army of Words
by Will Reger Maybe I am free Now From the voice Always chattering, Hungry to state Something profound Rattling off divisions’ worth of words To march in winter Out of my Moscow mind, Falling to partisans And hunger, Snow Was it a mistake To whip these marshaled Words forward to you? |
Falling Leaves, Rainy Day
by Will Reger I practice my flute on the balcony overlooking the silhouette of the city. I love to imagine the notes falling, spiraling down like leaves to the street. Their musical cackle rises up to me, as the many feet of strangers plow and kick unknowingly through the piles of long ago played notes, never swept up and carted away. Of course, when rain falls, the music grows softer, messier. The heart of it is timid in the damp air, and as the water gathers in the gutters, many tunes are brought to life and fade away into the distance. Rainy nights like these reassure me some kind of paradise is coming—the music I remember has fallen to the street and helps keep alive my wish to live. |
Will Reger has been publishing poetry since 2010. He is the Inaugural Poet Laureate for the city of Urbana, Illinois. He has published two volumes of poetry (Petroglyphs 2019; Kaleidoscope 2020). He plays the dong xiao and the bansuri and is an assistant professor in the Department of History at Illinois State University.
May 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Poem this month by Robin Wright
Granddaughter's First Picnic
by Robin Wright
Other children yell, baby, as they run past her,
around picnic tables on their way to adulthood.
Soon, she’ll enter their world
of carelessness and consequence,
but today she nurses on sleep’s sweet breast
through popped balloons and Zac’s protest
against time-out. She is oblivious
to camera flashes, the smell of fried chicken.
But when a little girl touches her
with a bunting feather left behind
at Canyon Lake, that softness stirs her.
This poem was first published in The Literary Nest.
by Robin Wright
Other children yell, baby, as they run past her,
around picnic tables on their way to adulthood.
Soon, she’ll enter their world
of carelessness and consequence,
but today she nurses on sleep’s sweet breast
through popped balloons and Zac’s protest
against time-out. She is oblivious
to camera flashes, the smell of fried chicken.
But when a little girl touches her
with a bunting feather left behind
at Canyon Lake, that softness stirs her.
This poem was first published in The Literary Nest.
Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in One Art, As it Ought to Be, The Drabble, Young Ravens Literary Review, Olney Magazine, Rat’s Ass Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sanctuary, and others. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her first chapbook, Ready or Not, was published by Finishing Line Press in October of 2020.
APRIL 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Emma Foster
Poem this month by Emma Foster
After My Diagnosis: A Journey
by Emma Foster
My heart and my brain
Now grow in unison,
Thinking as one, and wondering
Where to go from there
After leaving the psychiatrist’s office.
My soul and my mouth
Both ask the same questions,
Asking why I didn’t know sooner.
And can I finally stop fighting
After finding answers I didn’t consider?
My lungs and my eyes
Must handle the new life in front of me.
They force me breathing, searching
For the next step to take,
Knowing I’ve got a powerful life to live.
My feet and my hands
Keep building and working
Because I’ve only just begun,
Climbing visceral mountains
With each day that I’m given.
This poem was previously published by Art of Autism.
by Emma Foster
My heart and my brain
Now grow in unison,
Thinking as one, and wondering
Where to go from there
After leaving the psychiatrist’s office.
My soul and my mouth
Both ask the same questions,
Asking why I didn’t know sooner.
And can I finally stop fighting
After finding answers I didn’t consider?
My lungs and my eyes
Must handle the new life in front of me.
They force me breathing, searching
For the next step to take,
Knowing I’ve got a powerful life to live.
My feet and my hands
Keep building and working
Because I’ve only just begun,
Climbing visceral mountains
With each day that I’m given.
This poem was previously published by Art of Autism.
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Emma Foster is a fiction writer and poet based in Florida. Her works have appeared in Ariel Chart, Sledgehammer Lit, Aurora Journal, Your Daily Poem, Art of Autism, and others. Her microchap "Isosceles Triangles" was released by Origami Poems in 2021. |
MARCH 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Poem this month by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Sliding Over the Edge
by Susan J. Wurtzburg
The Yokohama coast where railway tracks hold the land
close to the seashore like a giant zipper.
Wooden sleepers stretch north to Kaena Point,
an albatross sanctuary on Oahu’s rocky tip.
A promontory across the ocean, and many mountain ranges
from my father, lost to geography.
The landscape impinges on his daylight hours,
four white walls, a wheelchair, and a door.
No entrance to the world. He has exited his mind
and left his body untenanted, an empty shell.
This dry husk of a man, confined to a bed, no walking,
but occasional gliding, nurse powered.
Motionless, but for a flapping arm, almost like a wing
practicing flight, skin transforming to feathers.
Plumes of hair upright, but inside an old sea bird preparing
to launch from his wheeled chariot.
Rounding skyward, an avian intervention giving sanctuary
as his mind slides over the edge of reality.
Spending his final years airborne at sea, so ideal
since he always loved birds, especially albatrosses.
This poem was previously published in Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, June 01 issue.
by Susan J. Wurtzburg
The Yokohama coast where railway tracks hold the land
close to the seashore like a giant zipper.
Wooden sleepers stretch north to Kaena Point,
an albatross sanctuary on Oahu’s rocky tip.
A promontory across the ocean, and many mountain ranges
from my father, lost to geography.
The landscape impinges on his daylight hours,
four white walls, a wheelchair, and a door.
No entrance to the world. He has exited his mind
and left his body untenanted, an empty shell.
This dry husk of a man, confined to a bed, no walking,
but occasional gliding, nurse powered.
Motionless, but for a flapping arm, almost like a wing
practicing flight, skin transforming to feathers.
Plumes of hair upright, but inside an old sea bird preparing
to launch from his wheeled chariot.
Rounding skyward, an avian intervention giving sanctuary
as his mind slides over the edge of reality.
Spending his final years airborne at sea, so ideal
since he always loved birds, especially albatrosses.
This poem was previously published in Love in the Time of Covid: A Chronicle of a Pandemic, June 01 issue.
Susan J. Wurtzburg lives in Hawaii with her husband, a dog, and many books. Writing keeps her sane in these volatile times, and her poetry has appeared in Bindweed Magazine, Poetry and Covid, The Literary Nest, The Pen Woman, Verse-Virtual, and Quince Magazine. Thanks to the Rat’s Ass Review Writing Group members for wonderful input over the years.
FEBRUARY 2022: Selected Poetry
Poem this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Poem this month by Elizabeth Fairleigh
Rolling Waves
by Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh
Sapphire waves on an endless sea,
possess the secrets of a soul set free.
Magnetically gathered, waves form a wall.
They pile up in rhythm, then gracefully fall.
Quietly harboring man’s innermost needs.
Saving her whispers for planting the seeds.
Currents of motion swiftly run by.
Releasing her anger, as viewed from the sky.
Fluently flowing with life’s greatest treasures.
Feeling so grand, the tide only measures.
Sweet essence of life pours forth from the sea,
Engulfing our senses and what’s yet to be.
Man’s tears are consumed in diaphanous foam.
Fragmented pieces on coarse sands of home.
Calling us back, a power so strong
We return to the seashore, where we belong.
by Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh
Sapphire waves on an endless sea,
possess the secrets of a soul set free.
Magnetically gathered, waves form a wall.
They pile up in rhythm, then gracefully fall.
Quietly harboring man’s innermost needs.
Saving her whispers for planting the seeds.
Currents of motion swiftly run by.
Releasing her anger, as viewed from the sky.
Fluently flowing with life’s greatest treasures.
Feeling so grand, the tide only measures.
Sweet essence of life pours forth from the sea,
Engulfing our senses and what’s yet to be.
Man’s tears are consumed in diaphanous foam.
Fragmented pieces on coarse sands of home.
Calling us back, a power so strong
We return to the seashore, where we belong.
Elizabeth Stevenson Fairleigh is an award-winning college newspaper editor. She has been writing poetry since she was 14. Over the years she has written more than 125 poems and is compiling them into a book titled The E Collection: Poems from the Heart, which her artistic daughter will illustrate. Elizabeth shares, “Writing poetry is my passion and how I process life." When not writing poems, she runs a PR firm, thE Connection, Inc. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband of 26 years and daughter. They have a tailless cat named Cookie, a leopard gecko named Leona, a fire bellied toad and an aquarium full of tropical fish!
JANUARY 2022: Selected Poetry
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
Poems this month by Ingrid Bruck
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In Praise of Grits
by Ingrid Bruck I love corn in all varieties, shapes and textures. Fresh on the cob, slathered with butter and salt. Corn, knife sliced off blanched cobs. Yellow or white grains, served whole or creamed. An unpeeled ear, charcoal roasted, rubbed with lime. Ripe corn from the garden, frozen or canned. Shucked and dried kernels off the cob. Ground into flour, made into corn muffins. Pounded into masa, patted, slapped, baked into tortillas. Boiled rough cracked corn in salt water for grits. I love grits, they travel me back to Texas Where our boys were born and raised. Good old-fashioned grits (never instant), I boil stone cut grits in salty water. We eat grits for breakfast with butter and cracked pepper. Or a traditional southern dish of grits and fried Smothered in creamed gravy, with greens on the side. Grits open up miles of clear blue Texas skies Where the sun shines so bright, you have to wear shades, Where you can’t gage far from near on rolling prairie grass, Where long horn steer and antelope roam on ranches, Where the legend of Bigfoot Wallace, Texas Ranger, Lives on in the hill country along the Llano River And bluebonnets grow bigger than his feet or appetite, Where Big Tex stands at the Dallas State Fair entrance (Even though he burned in a fire in October 2012 Until they rebuilt his fifty foot frame, cowboy clothes), And where old-fashioned grits, the only real kind, Boil in a pot of water for exactly twenty minutes As every lover of the movie My Cousin Vinny knows. First Published by: Halcyon Days Magazine, Issue 18, Summer 2020 |
Cherokee Moon Sonnet
by Ingrid Bruck Bull moon paws the sky. He paces the night, Rising, waxing gibbous, waning, a friend of all seasons. Light binds time in moon cycles: two fortnights make one month, three months stitch a season, four seasons sew a year. One horned, two horned, one horned— steadfast and true, bull races and snorts to the end of his time. Extinguished and rekindled, bull’s lantern floods through darkness. First Published by: Poetry Hall: Chinese & English Bilingual Journal Vol 3 No 1 April 15, 2020 |
Ingrid Bruck, a Pennsylvania-based poet, writes haiku and short poems, makes jam and grows wildflowers. She is a retired library director. Her chapbook, Finding Stella Maris, was published by Flutter Press. Current work appears in #FemKu, Failed Haiku, Heron’s Nest, Drifting Sand and Heliosparrow.
