Ariadne’s News! A wonderful World Poetry Café radio show with two great guests on October 19, 1-2 pm PST. First up: Trish Hopkinson with advice on contests, tips for youth poets and how her popular blog came into being. She answered a poet’s question about spending around $500 dollars total on submissions fees and did not receive any acknowledgement from any of them. We hope to have Trish back again! A must hear show below:
LISTEN HERE! This is for last week’s show. Hopefully we can retrieve the current show from the station.
Trish Hopkinson has always loved words in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. A Pushcart nominated poet, she is author of three chapbooks and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including Stirring, Pretty Owl Poetry, and The Penn Review. She is a product director by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow Hopkinson on her blog where she shares information on how to write, publish, and participate in the greater poetry community at http://trishhopkinson.com/ Tips for publishing , contests and more!
A Way In
for Amiri Baraka
As involved and still
as looking inward. Loudly
closing all the shutters at once.
Evening: sarcasm blocks
my window view
of the garden.
of light. The shadows. The
irregular flickers. Like old
flashbulbs on the red carpet, cold
and electric. There is no silence,
John Cage says . . . Just the tones
of nervous system operation
& blood circulation.
My throat wants to shout
out at this tangible reality.
Although, (standing upright in thin
atmosphere from shut windows; all
the answers falling to the floor,
till your feet are bruised & knee deep in)
Although, sunlight will edge between cracks
& in warm strips of faith, of truth.
There are glorious murals of lilies
on the wainscot
in the dollhouse. The dolls
sit still all day. In blue
dawn & morning dew.
Church bells, like the good
book in the nightstand, anchored in the drawer.
The lamb and the crucifix, a vision
with an ending.
I am satisfied. Pausing
in this moment, staying still,
waiting to pass this old age, the
mortal pain of body; sloughed off . . .
Like newborn field mice;
shivering in the nest,
until the unknowing
boot heel crushes their bones.
Use up the ugly
expanses, with full lungs
primed. Harmless lift
of human dreams. A prophet’s
Crumpling into the dirt, worms
writhing on lips. Wood
and hinges sealing the box.