Poetry Reading – Brown, Morrison + Moore

Poets Marcia Brown, Dave Morrison & Thomas Moore read from their works Friday, March 21 2014, 7:00 PM at the Harlow Gallery, 160 Water Street in Hallowell.  Light refreshments served. Suggested contribution: $3.00.  For further information call Ted Bookey at  685-3636.

POMEGRANATE  by Marcia Brown

Skin of rouged leather

molded in bulging planes

around its corpulence,

then gathered up

in that little tufted crown—

such an Old King Cole

of a fruit!

 

But slit its skull, peer

into the otherworldly catacomb

of cells like beeswax,

prod gently as a surgeon

to expose the cache

of utterly astonishing,

near-pulsing jewels — a red

like blood or love

that suddenly exists

for you alone. Tear, flex

the concave treasure trove

into convex – inhale

a mist of crystal juices.

 

This must be the way

that sudden wealth

seduces. 

 

DARK by Dave Morrison

I’ve been listening to

the dark for

hours.

 

At first it was

fine sand sifting

over old stones,

 

then warm wind through

a rusted screen,

then heavy mist

 

falling on the

roof of a

convertible.

 

The night was an

aquarium filled with

stones, each one a

 

worry, and the sound of

the darkness was

black ink poured in,

 

until there was nothing

but the sound of

the darkness, like the

 

hiss of a radiator in

the memory of

another house. 

 

THE PLYMOUTH ON ICE by Thomas Moore

On frigid January nights we’d

take my ‘forty-eight Plymouth onto

the local reservoir, lights off

to dodge the cops, take turns

holding long manila lines in pairs

behind the car, cutting colossal

loops and swoons across

the crackly range of ice. Oh

 

God did we have fun! At ridges

and fissures we careened,

tumbled onto each other, the girls

yelping, splayed out on all fours,

 

and sometimes we heard groans

deep along the fracture lines as

we spun off in twos, to paw, clumsy,

under parkas, never thinking of

 

love’s falls or how thin ice

would ease us into certain death.

No, death was never on our minds,

we were eighteen, caterwauling

 

under our own moon that

warded off the cops and

front-page stories of six kids

slipping under the fickle surface. 

 

 

 

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