Saturday, February 21 - a Miramar publication party
EP Foster Library
in the Topping Room at 3:00 pm
651 E. Main Street - Ventura
host and publisher, Christopher Buckley
Poets reading include: Polly Bee, Susan Chiavelli, Angel Garcia,
Timothy Sheehan, Phil Taggart, Emma Trelles, Jackson Wheeler,
Florence Weinberger, Kim Young, Gary Young, Perie Longo,
Glenna Luschei, Friday Gretchen, Marsha de la O, John Ridland,
Mary Kay Rummel, Elijah Imlay, Geofrey Jacques,
Shelley Savren, Fernando Albert Salinas,
Miramar is published out of Santa Barbara and publishes poets from
all over the United States. An inclusive journal that combines the past,
the now and future of poetry with the caveat, Miramar publishes poetry
and commentary; old school truth and beauty.
From issues 2 & 3
Malena Mörling
She Kept on Shouting
Just as the airplane
was taking off, a little girl
in a pink, ruffled dress—
(hair, curly and blond)
sitting just a few rows ahead
began to shout:
—Where are we going?
—Where are we going?
—Where are we going?
and while the plane buoyed up
on the air’s tilted
and invisible conveyor belt
she kept on shouting—
until her voice
collapsed,
as if the bottom of it
had dropped out
as the earth
dropped off,
became something else.
A new, strangely
distant and dizzying
thought
none of us would ever know
how to touch.
Ruben Quesada
Lament
This star has been dying, God.
And if the ancient seahorses and whales
could flee, they would surge into the empty sky.
Watch their tails trail into the distant future like lonely comets
their dying light haunting the darkness,
where anything is possible.
Do not be angry with us. Let us resist the painful weight
of death, the worthless ghost of this daily life.
Gary Young
Driving from the valley to my home in the mountains, I saw persimmons and
pomegranates bend spindly boughs almost to the ground. In every direction
there were trees marking each farm with a pattern distinct as a fingerprint—
date palms, blue spruce, walnut, cypress, olive and sycamore surrounding,
protecting and dwarfing a farmhouse and barn. There were rows of peach
trees, their trunks swollen over the grafted rootstock, and grape vines thick
as my thigh. Every hundred feet an owl box sat perched on a pole. Dust
rose behind a tractor, billowed and trailed away in a pattern identical to the
clouds that stretched across the sky. Cotton bolls gleaned from the fields
by a persistent wind dotted fences and the thorny weeds by the side of
the road. The cemeteries were filled with flowers, as if a feast were taking
place, a party, a wedding. Almost home, I glimpsed the fluorescent rust of a
Dawn Redwood about to drop its leaves. I’d driven past that tree a hundred
times before, and never noticed it.
Free
2015/02/21 - 2015/02/21
E.P. Foster Library
651 E. Main St., Ventura, CA 93001