will host a Poetry Reading
June 3rd at 4PM, in the Gallery
Two poems.....
Helen Marie Casey
Jeanne,
After the Battle Is Won
i Orléans, May 1429
We fill the
boat with every stinking thing:
faggots,
horse-bones, shoes, sulfur.
We set it
ablaze, then watch the flames devour
the bridge
above. The God-damns run like rats.
We listen to
their shrieks. Men who cannot flee
drop and drown.
I listen to the fire have its way,
ashen remains
everywhere, and suffer no remorse.
ii Confession
Mon père, I was afraid. It was not the blood
nor the wheeze
and gasp of men as they lay choking,
death an arm’s
length away. It was not fire’s hem
that rushed
across the bridge, down the ladders, up
against the
legs of my own men nor the sword, gore
crusting on the
shank. I did not fear the arrow near my cheek.
It was the
devil’s smell, more foul than dung, rot, puke, or pus.
He moved among
us, sulfur and ash in his steps. I could not
see his face,
could not cut him down, could not
outrun him, could
not turn off
his taunt. Whore, whore, he
called until I heard nothing
else. Oh,
Father, I dreamed I should die naked and unshriven.
This is one of the poems in FRAGRANCE UPON HIS LIPS, a chapbook of poems on the subject of Joan of Arc. This year we celebrate the 600th anniversary of her birth.
About Helen Marie Casey
Helen Marie Casey’s books include My Dear Girl: The Art of Florence Hosmer (Black Lawrence Press), two chapbooks: Fragrance Upon His Lips (Finishing Line Press), a collection of poems about Joan of Arc, and Inconsiderate Madness (Black Lawrence Press), a collection of poems about Mary Dyer, hanged in Boston in 1660. Helen won the 14th National Poet Hunt sponsored by The MacGuffin and judged by Thomas Lynch. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Ct Review, Louisiana Literature, The Laurel Review, Tiferet, The South Carolina Review, Runes, America, The MacGuffin, and Dogwood.
Joel Moskowitz
For John Campbell
I confess––
on a vacant lot,
from behind a bush,
I lobbed a hard dirt clod
(or was it a stone?)
striking true at the back
of John Campbell’s head,
above his ear as he turned.
I had no reason,
but–– that neighbor boy, John,
neither my enemy nor my pal,
was younger than I.
Our door bell chimed, and he––
just a thin shadow
with a frozen smile
which was all wrong–– appeared
shielded by his big sister.
I, also half-hidden,
stood behind my family inside the doorway, and said,
“I was arranging my coin collection all afternoon."
As usual, evening was loud,
lots of us, our cups spilling over.
Perhaps we ate Mom’s great salmon patties.
I was a quiet son.
They thought I was good.
About Joel Moskowitz
Joel Moskowitz has had
poems published in J Journal, Midstream, The Healing Muse, Naugatuck River
Review, Whiskey Island Magazine,
and The New Vilna Review. He
is the first place winner of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire’s National
Contest, November, 2008.
Joel, an artist and
picture framer in Sudbury, Massachusetts, is writing 'The Peddler's Banquet,'
a book of poems exploring themes of history through his paternal
grandfather's voice and narrative.
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