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| folded
and waiting •
sentence
of suddenness |
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poetry
by michael ladanyi
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15 june 2007 |
| originally
published by retort
magazine |
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verse
live | volume 1 •
number 3
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"Poetry
is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great
and feeling souls." -Voltaire
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| published
since April 2007 | Verse Live centers on the publication
of new poetry. |
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| Michael
Paul Ladanyi
lives in the foothills of the North Georgia
mountains with his wife and two daughters. His work has
appeared in numerous print and online publications, spanning
several countries. He served as a poetry editor for Rustlings
of the Wind and contributing poetry reviewer for
Write-away-poetry.
Michael is also the co-editor of Exposé Express,
as well as the creator and co-editor of Adagio
Verse Quarterly. |
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GMB
Chomichuk
(eMail •
Web
site • MySpace
page) is a writer, artist, and founder of Alchemical Press,
in Winnipeg,
Manitoba
(Western Canada).
He is a proponent of illustrated, sequential, novel-length stories
that are equal parts prose and picture. Current creative endeavors
include: working as art director on two feature film projects
with Absurd
Machine Films, CD design and art direction with the band Tele,
and writing/illustrating two novel-length projects for Alchemical
Press. GMB has been part of the TBA staff since May 2007.
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folded
and waiting
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The
bathroom mirror seems bone framed
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and
full of guile this morning, distorting
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my
reflection, conspiring with thin
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| shadows
that patch my face with cold |
| shades
of winter’s longing, though, |
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| through
the cracked window I hear |
| April's
early, bird-pricked and layered |
| sounds.
This coffee is cold, tastes of |
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| the
entrenched, already dead feeling, |
| of
something you've said and wish |
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| you
could withdraw. In the still, cool |
| kitchen,
all curtained, image-residue, |
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| of
the children and you, your half |
| eyes,
morning smiles, have been |
| folded
into the dark stain of the |
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| cabinets,
the green-white patterns of |
| new
linoleum, waiting for your return. |
| Outside
on the screened back porch, |
| morning
birds have grown still, their |
| voices
replaced by light and steady |
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| rain
that smells like poverty and love. |
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sentence
of suddenness
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| The
shredded morning light is fickle |
| against
the windows' layered rain, a |
| steward
of what is longing and |
| primitive.
The leave-ladened oaks |
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| hang
as weeping willows, making |
| themselves
feel ashamed, causing |
| minutes
to contain many more |
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| seconds
of sight. Somewhere else |
| are
you, dividing your memories |
| into
thick lines of cocaine and |
| drops
of stale whiskey, beneath |
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| darkness
under crying eyes and |
| drawn,
time-browned shades. Down |
| and
away in wilting shadows of |
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| skinny
alleys, withering concrete |
| bones
and chain link veins, the |
| suddenness
of what you are |
| killing
cripples my tragic hand, |
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| my
roots in you pivot in tears and |
| drown.
Laying our gathered memories |
| to
waste, that suddenness finds me |
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| here
in this circled lamplight beside |
| this
ivy-covered window sill in need |
| of
paint, suspending and sentencing |
| our
impressionistic intimacy. |
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