Through Paddy’s splintered door, green and bolted-black,
You fell wind-whipped and kissed with cold.
Your hunger cries, “How can this solitude endure?”
You seem to find the answer behind my eyes.
Lodged between our bodies and beaten brick,
Thirsty bodhráns roll,
Seducing late night feet and brandied fingertips
With aboriginal bound.
Water glass clash with fiddle round—
Cricket calls of bow-string consummation.
By breathe of God, hand of man and skin of lamb,
Uilleann pipes play air-brushed hymns of land-torn woe.
Skin sings, hunger dies and through this revel,
We drink life—an elemental feast of summoned song.
Feet now fiercely feed on full grown beat—
A wind-reaped harvest lust of ancient note.
The last call—and smoky mugs drift
Down to earth as airborne doves.
The beats subside, bodies shift…
Unexpected as death, three a.m. has discovered
Sheri Bresson is an actor, singer, writer and teacher from Connecticut who has performed in the UK, New York, and across New England in various stage productions. Sheri has spent the last several years creating, and beginning to perform her one woman show titled "In Her Own Words," which is comprised of the writings and transcriptions (the real-life words) of six extraordinary women from history. A graduate of NYU's Tisch School of the Arts, the British American Drama Academy, and a student of the late E. Katherine Kerr, Sheri also enjoys teaching, and passing along Katherine's revolutionary work through her own classes and coaching.
2021 SPRING POETRY WINNERS!
Dimitri Rimsky lives in Washington, CT where it attended school for 12 years. Later attend SCSC briefly and New Haven College for a while and then hit the hippie highway.
He has been a Talent Agent, Mime, Graphic and Web Designer and is currently a House Painter. He is also an occasional poet.
Poetry has no plot
well at least this poem has no plot
not so far I intend nothing, I am merely writing a beginning
a poem, no plot, Not yet Of course some plot may develop unintended At Any Moment some great sweeping epic may evolve but I have no inkling of it now,
its only a poem about spring and while I’m writing it
David Mamet is being interviewed, and he says,” intent is all an actor needs”
My intent is to write a poem about spring, that is my intent,
but it has not begun yet even the best of intentions may be deceiving
When I fell the tree, I cut it where it lay
and tossed the logs off the drive Then a year or so passed
and when I got around to splitting the logs I tossed them in a heap against the building, thinking I would burn them in my mother’s fireplace
or they were cut small to fit the hearth, but I didn’t and winter passed
along with my good intentions So there was the pile and I thought of moving it but weeks passed and I didn’t and soon the Tulips my ex-wife planted there
began coming up I’d sort of forgotten about them, their yellow and I don’t much like them I would not have chosen yellow, or tulips for that matter
but I wasn’t consulted about the planting
I was assured they would be cheerful
and brighten the approach to the house
and would do well as it was the only sunny corner A Sunny corner I would have favored
with another flower, of another color
but what do I know
So here come the Tulips, bending and curving
up the torturous route through the logs
seeking the sun
for a few weeks I was pre-occupied
by some internal metaphysical dialogue
about the resilience of life,
against the random nature of unexpected obstructions that contort our best intentions And the Irony
of throwing logs on an ex-wife’s sleeping bed,
to burn in a dead mother’s fire
and any number
of other such musings
Meanwhile the Tulips persisted cheerfullyAfter a protracted period of exhaustive deliberation,
I took action, carefully dismantling the log pile
stacking it along an unplanted wall, gingerly disentangling each Tulip
until finally the true horror of my neglect or indifference lay revealed At least a dozen bright, yellow Tulips
with stems so long and twisted
that without their supporting logs
they could only lie sprawling like Medusa’s tendrils in the warm sun This would never do
So I went about propping them up,
You Know…. Forked sticks, and twigs
So now I’ve got a Bed of Tulips
that looks mostly like a procession of pilgrims
on their way to LourdesMamet says, “deception lies at the heart of Every Tragedy” and I say, “Tragedy lies at the heart of every season, and Spring is no exception”
through the power of art.
In Spring, Just
The blue sky has turned my body to green
red sap bloody now coursing through my veins
My brown eyes watch earth realize winter's dream
Asphyxiated cells rendezvous in- side my heart, chromatophores hard suckling
Octopus man, yearning to be yearning
in odyssey outside of trees rustling
my loves wolves to howl and howling learning
to love all over again to under- stand the vast levitational weight spring
of longing, bursting, alive in wonder-
full love of you, blooming earth surrounding.
We hug hard until our bodies combine
Blossoming earth holds everything, one, divine.
Nick Jacobs is one of the Cornwall Curmudgeons of the Eccentric Table whose oddities have become his commodities...For years he has worked as something, somewhere. He has had the privilege of performing with David Begelman at Connecticut Stage under the direction of Arlene Begelman. He lives in his 500 square foot digs with his numerous dear typewriter companions with whom he hunts and pecks out some sonnets. He yearns for cafes to open again so he can type in them. He loves Brahm's Opus 117 and fried octopus and Sanderson Regular Half Plate cameras. He often sits down by the riverside Bridge Number 560.