Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2013    fiction    all issues


Sharron Singleton
Five Poems

Sarah Giragosian
Five Poems

Jenna Kilic
Five Poems

Kristina McDonald
Five Poems

Toni Hanner
Five Poems

Annie Mascorro
Five Poems

Brittney Corrigan
Three Poems

S. E. Hudgens
Four Poems

Ali Doerscher
Four Poems

David Sloan
Three Poems

Olivia Cole
Five Poems

Lucy M. Logsdon
Four Poems

Marc Pietrzykowski
Four Poems

Donna Levine Gershon
Five Poems

Eva Heisler
The Olden Days

Stephanie Rose Adams
Five Poems

Jill Kelly
Five Encounters

Ben Bever
Five Poems

Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Five Poems

Arlene Zide
Three Poems

Harry Bauld
Five Poems

Lisa Zerkle
Four Poems

Peter Mishler
Five Poems

Tim Hawkins
Five Poems

Marqus Bobesich
Four Poems

Abigail Templeton-Greene
Five Poems

Eric Duenez
Five Poems

Anne Graue
Five Poems

Susan Laughter Meyers
Five Poems

Peter Kahn
Two Poems

D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems

Linda Sonia Miller
The Kingdom

Nicklaus Wenzel
Skagit River

Holly Cian
Five Poems

Susan Morse
Five Poems

Daniel Lassell
Five Poems

Svetlana Lavochkina
Temperate Zones

Daniel Sinderson
Three Poems

Catherine Garland
Five Poems

Michael Fleming
Five Poems

Harry Bauld

Myopia and the Sick Child

Out the window’s unground lens clouds flee

my son’s fever across a breadth

of Bronx, where sough and whimper

drive heat on. This El Greco sky can’t be escaping

a whole borough that fast, such mad ploughing.

How can I be anyone’s father?

All I would need to halt the day

in its tracks, its element, its fit: a little vision.

These are my glasses at hand,

and here is the world to weather.

I should put them together

to catch this white scuttle and revelation,

the science of one last chance. But I don’t want

to recognize anything anymore,

rather pray (if this be prayer) without mark,

spot, puncture, like bristles of an astigmatic painter

caressing the flames of his own seraphim.

Square One

I would like to let everything

of love alone. Morning’s dog

keeps up its bark, and I can’t remember

when I lost track of you.

My physics stops at petal’s end

of a flower I can’t reach—I have no

need there—only not to choke

on every word: mass, force, attraction.

What keeps me going—somewhere

a nun touches herself to god.

The Greeks had no different word

for yellow and green, a spectrum to believe in

where nobody knows any longer

the burning sun from anyone else’s moon.


If I say love it will crack

my teeth and I am already bone

in need of graft. Mornings fall

from opened doors and small birds

persist like a torn corner of moon

restored in the last scrap of night, the page

I couldn’t read through

the razz of migraine,

an acre of dictation I shiver to take

from the car, the shower, the footstep

that starts the lists no one can finish.

In an orbit of larks I am sparrow pretender

in the chorus, a silent mouth moving,

makeshift hymn of shutting up and down.


Basquiat, 1982

In the tic tac toe of this space, what year will it be

When time arrows itself into your late rally?

One blue hole in the punctured ozone of downtown

Is all the sky you get in this economy.

Eenie meenie miney moe, catch a market by the toe,

Out goes you and your bloody trellis of halo.

Tomorrow avoids your blackboard, mad matrix

Of debt figured in the subway’s antipodes.

This scream through the drain of teeth

We’ve heard before in a major, northern key.

Chase it, get it, spend it, because you know

Something’s running you down, something’s coming;

Even if you don’t know what it is, you’ve seen

Its panicked fingers bony in their bright ecstasy

Erected into all the light left. You know

The position; now turn it to your own ends.

Queer Street

Boxer, Basquiat

what stories

he told with his hands

in the right he had romances

in the left soldier’s memories

—Zbigniew Herbert

Out of the zoo

of white fears are these

raised hands a no mas of surrender

or kong roar of victory

raging bull horns that have swallowed

the four-elbowed tenements of the Bronx

all torso and neckless

as a cartoon heavyweight

or black savior painted into a corner

stretched in the squared ring

against our sins

nails in the gloves

(the fix is in)

for hooks to lead us on

and crosses doubled and nailed—

are we flat on our backs

on the white canvas

blood pooling as the count

goes on above

arms and hairy fists pinned and fallen

or on our feet

in the trance of queer street

our permanent address

in these late rounds

where the legs are gone

and we’re out on our feet,

the heart alive and dead at once.

Harry Bauld is from Medford, Massachusetts. He was included by Matthew Dickman in Best New Poets 2012 and his poems have appeared in Nimrod, Southern Poetry Review, The Southeast Review, Verse Daily, Ruminate, The Baltimore Review, Whiskey Island, and Deliberately Thirsty (UK). He won the 2008 New Millenium Writings poetry prize. He has taught and coached baseball, basketball and boxing at high schools in Vermont and New York.

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