From the archives – Mourning in the Burned House — RJ Ingram

Mourning in the Burned House

—after a line by Margaret Atwood

In the burned house I am making Margaret breakfast:
cold cigarettes, spoons wired into squid. It swims
below the marble top, slowly under the counter

and jettisons to the sinus cavity. My limbs are full.
Webby tendrils lock my knees at sixty degrees—
she tells me no one eats squid for breakfast anymore.

We mourn and continue watching the sunrise
above neighbor cabins. Simple things happen
when sleep swims into the drone of plastic fans,

loose floorboards. This morning deserves apple wine
endings. If I tell Margaret ten of my children
survive by eating the younger ones,

fists full of amino acids, each a candy puff,
with ink, blowing around mercury moonlight,
as dandelions dance in oscillating wind, she will leave

doors swinging. The flameless candles echo stillness.
My cinder seat casts shadows over the pulpy wax.
The countertop reflects the hollow cup of the spoon,

my children are narcoleptic variations
of absence, empty chairs, I am sure.

by RJ Ingram

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 20, January 2011

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – To Love Like That — Lucie M. Winborne

To Love Like That

At the shore
two birds were locked
in love

or mortal combat

When the child between my knees

demanded why they danced

As if she knew the current
carrying them

was not the wind from which
she sheltered,

And I saw for a moment
the unspent span that lay
before her

like the sand our toes
had not yet touched

Until a wave, breaking,
heaved up a shell

which I held to her ear, saying

For she might as well have asked me
why the sea is salt

as to define a force
like the tide that hurled
this empty life-house to her feet,

pink and broken,

its owner long eaten
or simply outgrown

like the self she will shed
when the swell overtakes her —

God willing she should love like that.

by Lucie M. Winborne

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 20, January 2011

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – What Breaks the Human Heart (iv) — Bebe Cook

What Breaks the Human Heart (iv)

The heart is covered by a sheath
of fine fingered threads,
a gauze of nerves. Alternating currents
which work in consort, cusps of skin
that rudder the mechanical—open and close
close and open. Valve merchants
who barter in vigor exchanging old for new.
I lost the boy (the child with arrhythmia)
at the state fair. His mother and I still taste
that metallic hour, we searched frantically,
we prayed fervently. At dusk we found him
standing on the fringe, the out-most edge
of the midway behind the tents of barkers
and carnies. He said he had been listening
to the whispered fables of tattoos. Muscled
arms of naked women, secret codes on numbered
fists and flowers adorning midriffs; natural
soothsayers that spoke Igpay Atinlay.
We did not tell him after —how fearful
we became of the circus and the voices
of inanimate things (unsure of the classification
of drawings on skin). How thankful
we were of the denizens of impulses
that kept him secure—within our gate.

by Bebe Cook

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 15, October 2009

Artwork by Bebe Cook

From the archives – Adjusting to war coming — David McAleavey

Adjusting to war coming

On the theory that if you tread enough water
the waves won’t close over you,
I did sufficient chores
to get out of the house,
its pretense of interminability –
solid bookcases, solid tables,
objects, objects.

Walked past the World Bank,
people with smudgy crosses on their foreheads,
Ash Wednesday,
past the souvenir stands, t-shirts 5 for $9, talk about cheap,
one of those days so full of signifying
even the veins in a slab of marble
look like figures, see,
that’s a tall person, slacks tight on her buns,
walking away.

Picked a route around puddles, melting snow,
noticed a stubby obelisk beside the Ellipse
put up by the DAC to name men
given the 17th century right
to own this land.

When our lives turn long enough
we realize we’ll never
have anything the way it was,
we set up stones,
asking them to speak,
pretending they will last.

Many more stones coming,
rows and rows, across the river.

We call this adjusting.

by David McAleavey

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 20, January 2011

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Year in Review: 2021 Stats

I would like to thank everyone who reads Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, and all the poets who’ve sent their work to me over the years. I never guessed I would be doing this for so long when I began publishing Autumn Sky Poetry back in March 2006 as a quarterly ezine. There have been several long hiatuses and a few times I thought I might quit publishing altogether, but the quality of work I receive on a daily basis keeps me going. The stats for 2021 are truly impressive and have exceeded every other prior year:

  • Total views: 52,107 (average 4342 per month)
  • Total visitors: 21, 434 (average 1786 per month)
  • Likes: 1781
  • Comments: 359

This year I intend to keep posting poems from the defunct quarterly archives every Sunday. And though I will probably go on a few breaks here and there, rest assured that your spectacular poems and our community of poetry aficionados will keep Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY going for many years to come.

-Christine, editor

From the archives – Ellen Andreé Comments in a Letter to Her Sister on L’absinthe by Degas — David W. Landrum

Ellen Andreé Comments in a Letter to Her Sister
on L’absinthe by Degas

Of course I look dead drunk. I think that’s what
he aimed for—and, of course, he always got

the effect he wanted. I am staring out,
my eyes unfocused. Marcellin is the lout

beside me, puffing on a pipe, his eyes
scanning the room, as if for his next prize,

his next seduction. He has a soft drink,
I have a green cocktail—green, and I think

it’s called Absinthe. I’m not a connoisseur
of mixed drinks, so I’m not completely sure

that’s right. We both look stupid, but I guess
that’s what Monsieur Degas sought to express.

Painters are strange creatures—men who can look
on your bare form and never feel the hook

of lust snag in their flesh—like doctors they
can see you but not be carried away

with the desire most men feel in their blood
at a woman’s nakedness. I guess that’s good.

He’s never made advances—yet sometimes
I wonder if he even sees my charms

or thinks the parts of me that ravish men
might be a prize he’d go great lengths to win.

I’m getting off the subject. I’ll be down
next Saturday to see you in your town.

I’m glad to hear, thank God, Dafne, your child,
got over smallpox—that the case was mild.

To answer you, I don’t know if I’ll pose
for him in the future. As far as modeling goes,

I doubt if I can do it anymore.
I don’t like being painted as a whore,

and a drunk whore at that. As Crème de Menthe,
is always preferable over Absinthe,

modeling is dull; the stage is so much better.
I prefer acting. Now I’ll post this letter.

by David W. Landrum

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 19, October 2010

Painting by Edgar Degas, “The Absinthe Drinker.” 1876. Oil on canvas. Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France.

From the archives – When Jesus Was Grown — Gail White

When Jesus Was Grown

His mother breathed a deep sigh of relief
when he turned 25 and nothing strange
had happened. (Maybe it was all a dream,
that business with the angel).

She might yet manage to arrange a match
with some nice Jewish girl — it was high time —
and then she could relax, look forward to
a few polite grandchildren.

But though he was the finest carpenter
for miles around, had really learned the trade,
and knew and loved the Torah, nonetheless
she had concerns about him.

He seemed too fond of prophecies about
the world turned upside down, and although she
was charitable to a fault, she felt
he loved the poor to excess.

And now there was a prophet drawing crowds,
living on locusts, wearing camel skin.
His preaching was outrageous, and she hoped
her son would never hear it.

by Gail White

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 21, April 2011

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – After the Storm — Donna Vorreyer

After the Storm
Clouds scribbled
their white back
and forth as if you
had tried to erase
the sky, as if you
held some grudge
against the weather
or the atmosphere
or a certain shade
of blue, as if you
could command
the horizon, as if
words once spoken
could be recalled,
as if you could
erase anything,
as if the past was
not indelible, as if.

by Donna Vorreyer

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 11, September 2008

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Ice Storm by Beret Skorpen-Tifft

Ice Storm

The day you left
ice came in curtains of water
asking the forest for something
nearly impossible.

It looked like God had taken his
anger out first on the white birches,
then on last fall’s queen anne’s lace
and dusky golden rod
still left standing in the meadow.

They weren’t the hardest hit.
That would be us. We remained cold and even colder,
my hand wrapped around his small palm.
Your truck bumped up and down.
We watched for the red tail lights until dawn.

But then came the sun and the moon,
and the sun and moon again.
Hallelujah for that,
for it tracked our days.
When I would reach for your skin,
and come back with nothing,
and even more than nothing,
I would come back with space
small enough for a field mouse to fill
but bigger than everything else on earth,
I whispered to myself amen.

by Beret Skorpen-Tifft

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 9, March 2008

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – People’s Movement 2006 April 4 by Mukul Dahal

People’s Movement 2006 April 4

He bought new, harsh
and fierce boots to
limit the movement
of the sterns strolling about the garden.
He hanged a clumsy ball
of iron in the legs of purple gullinule
to strip it off its nature.
He dangled a bulky nose ring
to fetter the graceful
struts of the Himalayan lophophorus.
He wore the boots
that mimicked death’s
nails and claws.
He sent winter
to love’s courtyard.
He fuelled
the agitation
of his own mind.
But all the things
that he did
turned to him
and began to
pull his root to
wipe him out of
the flower’s home.
Then he kneeled down
and swore he had intruded
into their soul
and their lives.

by Mukul Dahal

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 2, September 2006

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim