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Poetry Winter 2013    fiction    all issues


Alysse Kathleen McCanna
& other poems

Peter Nash
Shooting Star
& other poems

Katherine Smith
House of Cards
& other poems

David Sloan
On the Rocks
& other poems

Alexandra Smyth
Exoskeleton Blues
& other poems

John Glowney
The Bus Stop Outside Ajax Bail Bonds
& other poems

Andrea Jurjević O’Rourke
It Was a Large Wardrobe...
& other poems

Lisa DeSiro
Babel Tree
& other poems

Michael Fleming
& other poems

Michael Berkowitz
As regards the tattoo on your wrist
& other poems

Michael Brokos
Landscape without Rest
& other poems

Michael H. Lythgoe
Orpheus In Asheville
& other poems

John Wentworth
morning people
& other poems

Christopher Jelley
Double Exposure
& other poems

Catherine Dierker
dinner party
& other poems

William Doreski
Hate the Sinner, Not the Sin
& other poems

Robert Barasch
& other poems

Rande Mack
& other poems

Susan Marie Powers
Red Bird
& other poems

Anne Graue
& other poems

Mariah Blankenship
Tub Restoration
& other poems

Paul R. Davis
& other poems

Philip Jackey
Garage drinking after 1989
& other poems

Karen Hoy
A Naturalist in New York
& other poems

Gary Sokolow
Underworld Goddess
& other poems

Michal Mechlovitz
The Early
& other poems

Henry Graziano
Last Apple
& other poems

Stephanie L. Harper
& other poems

Roger Desy
& other poems

R. G. Evans
& other poems

Frederick L. Shiels
Driving Past the Oliver House
& other poems

Richard Sime
Berry Eater
& other poems

Jennifer Popoli
Generations in a wine dark sea
& other poems

Writer's Site

Karen Hoy

A Naturalist in New York

I cannot see the buildings

of Manhattan in the dark,

though at a far journey’s end

as we cross

(yes it is,

confirms the driver)

the Brooklyn Bridge

towers of window lights are rising

in the buildings’ negative space.

It’s the way each

illuminated giant facet turns,

revealing more as we approach.

Transitions of galaxies,

oblong astronomical bodies

in a moving geometric display;

metropolitan northern lights,

and I am in awe.

I’ve seen things as stunning before:

the terrace of salt-white

pools at Pamukkale;

the cap of Kilimanjaro

afloat on African clouds;

stalactite ballrooms in

Carlsbad Caverns;

a neon-red sunset

on the Serengeti.

I feel my own turning,

my marrow re-engaging

in ways I didn’t know

my insides could fit.

I’m not a city person

is no longer available

as I adapt and rearrange;

a discontinuation

of a former stock phrase.

Nan’s Photographs

That one, that’s my favourite,

of my mother in a tutu,

age sixteen, on points,

with her raven hair straight

from a white hairband

and her hands arched above her.

of all your photographs

of even that one of me

with my brothers

when I wouldn’t keep still

at the photographers,

and Darryl is smiling

and Kevin has been instructed

to keep me on the seat

I’m already half off,

as if at any minute

eighteen month old me

will slither to the bottom

of the round frame

and drop, gurgling

onto your hall carpet.

more than the scattered ones

in little straight frames

around your bookshelves

and the dresser;

a collection of cousins

in the dull plumage

of successive school seasons.

This photo,

my mother; your daughter;

the family’s only dancer.

Look at her—

our loose-tendoned

connecting icon

in her own space,

owning the frame.

I love this photo,

how it shows excellence

pursued, found,

redelivered on demand

for the camera’s exposure;

her talent in black and white,

en pointe in a silvered

chemical capture.

For Peter in Memory of Jo

Meteorites land mostly

in the sea

or in forests

far from our eyes.

Sandcastles are always

washed away

by the tide—

they don’t survive.

But in between

these statistics

are things we risk

by being alive.

By survival

we’re defined by

losing people,

precious people,

lost to us,

the ones behind.

Somewhere on earth

a meteorite.

Ankles are lapped

by sand

sent swirling

into flower-shaped fractals:

a million tiny rocks

in the tide.

Mrs Bing and Mrs Bailey

and the list read

Bing Bing Bailey Bailey

Bing Bing Bailey.

Visiting you, we waited

with the suitcase, by

the noticeboard on the lobby wall,

while Mum brought in

the rest of our stuff,

letting the double doors close off

to the hot ice-cream-dripped tarmac

of an English just-a-half-season

or the rest of the year’s

straight-off-the-sea wind.

and the list read

Bing Bing Bailey Bailey

Bing Bing Bailey.

It always amused my sister and I—

seven days of warden shift

in a rhythmic, onomatopoeic

can’t-help-itself-but-be-a song.

Bing Bing Bailey Bailey

Bing Bong Bailey.

We hurried along the hall

and sang it to you, giggling,

at the entrance to Flat 4,

where you were

officially sheltered

from live-alone danger,

but independent

with your own front door

and wardens, on duty,

at your every red-cord-pulled call.

Bing Bing Bailey Bailey . . .

don’t finish it . . .

leave the song hanging

in our grandchildhoods

among the sandcastles.

Karen Hoy lives in Bradford-on-Avon in England and has a Creative Writing Diploma from Bristol University. Her poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies including Another Country: Haiku Poetry from Wales (Gomer) and My Mother Threw Knives (Second Light Publications). Karen works as a Development Producer in international TV documentaries. She also helps at With Words, co-designing writing courses. For each “difficult” poem, Karen aims to write at least one joyful one.

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