Showing posts with label alchemical poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alchemical poetry. Show all posts

Friday, April 18, 2025

Friday, April 18, 2025: Three Poems by Fay Loomis

 

                                                                   

© 2025 marie c lecrivain


 

Metamorphosis

In Memoriam: Joan Miller Bladden


where are you

dear sister

frozen bird

afraid to sing


in death

you open

your throat

fly


Ripped Path


sanctimonious

words drown me

fear drives a knife

into my heart

speak to me

of covert truth




Turn on Caesar’s Tables

Veni, Vidi, Vici. “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Attributed to Julius Caesar, 47 BC


I came, I saw, and I was conquered

beaten, burned, destroyed


And, like the Phoenix, I rose again

tempered by the fire


© 2025 Fay Loomis


Fay L. Loomis leads a quiet life in the woods in Kerhonkson, New York, USA. Member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers and the Rat's Ass Review Workshop, her poetry and prose appear in numerous publications, including five poetry anthologies. Fay is the author of Sunlit Wildness (Origami Poems Project, 2024) and Fragments of Myself, forthcoming from Porkbelly Press. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Friday, June 24, 2022

Friday, June 24, 2022: Sarah Maclay's two poems: "Kairos at Night" and "—as, after Odysseus, her body wanted to be Ophelia"

 



Kairos at Night


It seems to be a hammer

until I pick it up—


on the asphalt, white on black: a broken racket,

at the rim, says Service.


You hurl it, in the dark,

across the field, over the net.


It bounces once. There are no strings.

We are not even.


In the darkness, clover is a constellation.

After this much wet grass,

my feet are so cold, they forget.


You lift me to the stars.

But I am heavy, like a lamb


in the water. The wool gathers

again its weight

in river.


The light does to the trees

what the leaves do

to the stars.


Your head is in my lap.

It is lighter than I thought.


Your eyes, the stars

are leaving.

Clover is a consolation.


Take what you’re given,

and give to whatever you take.

Don’t complain.


I know you by the way your eyes squint through the leaves.

All of them.


—for F.W.

 


© 2022 Sarah Maclay








as, after Odysseus, her body wanted to be Ophelia


The pistol came with its own music.


An echo slid from her throat:


Liquid, alive beyond common names for color.


How at night she could not swim.


Her song like a line of neon in wavering slices


across the crinoline dark


until the dogs began to bay


and men slipped into the skins of animals


to roll against the mud without the barrier of clothes.


How that bay was a living jewel—the sound, the topaz water—


the water had poured from her


and become alive.


She would wash up on the shore or float,


as white as the lizard who pulls the carriage


in a dream, all soggy finery


and hair and reeds.


Over and over


her body was painted


in darkness,


like a wine of skin. 


What was true: 


It was up to her to invent


her own music, 


as she began to hear it


in the growing stain of sky.


 

© 2022 Sarah Maclay



Nightfall Marginalia, Sarah Maclay’s newest collection, is due from What Books in 2023. A winner of the Tampa Review Prize for Poetry, recipient of a COLA Fellowship, Yaddo residency, and a Pushcart Special Mention, her writing appears in APR, FIELD, Ploughshares, The Best American Erotic Poems,  The Writer’s Chronicle, Tupelo Quarterly, Manoa, Hotel Amerika, and Poetry International, where she long served as Book Review Editor. She teaches poetry at LMU.