Martina
—Poems by Martina Reisz Newberry, Los Angeles, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Martina Newberry
—Photos Courtesy of Martina Newberry
THE ENTOMOLOGIST’S NIECE SHARES HER DREAM
Uncle Bo, I dreamed of you last night.
I followed you into your den, put
on gloves and wandered through aisles of your
glass boxes. The activity was
frightening. Ants and beetles never
stopped moving. Spiders and scorpions
were slow and watchful. Earthworms, snails, slugs—
most bugs represented. Your favorites
were the spiders. In my dream, you sat
in a large leather chair, opened two
of the spider boxes and gathered
the spikey arachnids into your
hands. I froze, then put space between us.
Uncle Bo, you smiled, winked, and nodded.
The spiders made their way up your arms
and into your hair. You smiled, nodded.
“You see?” Your eyes saw everything. You
gestured for me to come closer, but
I was afraid and backed farther toward
the door. Your eyes saw everything.
I turned and walked toward escape, exit.
When I looked back to wave goodbye, all
had disappeared except for you, dear
Uncle Bo, and one small spider in
the palm of your hand. You smiled at me,
said, “Love is just the absence of fear.
No more than that and no less. You see?”
___________________
THE CREEK BEHIND THE CHURCH
It is a church of guttering candles
with its congregation of ghosts
watching, waiting.
Built from concrete memories,
immovable perceptions,
it sits at the end
of a briar-choked path.
Will you climb sounds the bell
that is not there.
Will you join us sings the choir
of non-angelic voices.
All the while, the creek
behind the church
breathes that which
is unutterable, the water
drowning everything
that is not there.
Will you join us sings the choir
of non-angelic voices.
All the while, the creek
behind the church
breathes that which
is unutterable, the water
drowning everything.
HOLD THIS JUNCTURE
As if you breathed in and held that breath for all eternity and, in that holding, preserved each single atom of time and place
As if there was a kind of platinum glow over all the buildings and sidewalks and pissed-off winter trees and as if that glow was immutable
As if a single journal entry held the promise of eternal life, eternal journeying to the farthest idylls; as if history could be held in that one feverish entry
As if each hour held the wantonness of Romani pulses and melodie—the nomadic wildness, the carelessness of dark musicians.
As if at your command—the command of your pen—Spring and Summer could be forever, without Fall’s dim promises and Winter’s punishments.
Finally, as if nothing ever needed a name and could be yours, if you wanted it, with a simple intake of air,
a breath.
_________________
WHAT I MEAN TO SAY IS THAT
there are things more important
than our names or our pastimes.
At the coffee shop where I
spend a dear amount of time,
I saw a man whose beard fell
to his belly. This seemed im-
portant. My friend had a dream
in which her dear father came
to tell her to watch the sky
when she needed guidance. This,
too, I saw as important.
When the dream ended, she looked
out her window and saw four
crows on a clothesline. It was
important—an omen of
something. She didn’t know what.
...DEEP RED FLESH AND ROSY BLUSH
ON THE SKIN
Doubtless I am a slave to all the
bright trophies of your life. I recount them
on various holidays, summer
mornings, and when the wind comes calling
down through the canyons. I recall that
statue you had at the edge of your
property—a woman holding a
bird. I caught that statue breathing in
the silence of a rising
full moon one night. I recall
the Blood Oranges that lay on
your lawn through June; then, one bright
morning, they were gone, the grass
clean as if the oranges were
never there at all. I did
not see that as an omen
then. It is official now.
Tell me, where did you hide the
economical black and
white notebooks with your poems and
sketches? Have you, after all
these years, reached the margins, the
blank spots you used to fill with
small drawings of diffident
Hooded Orioles and Grey Egrets?
Do you still ask God for that
golden
something else...
something other than...
something new—more...
I don’t want to join you on
the silvery, winged tram to
The Great Beyond or even
the dim not-so-Great-Beyond.
My sole purpose is just this:
to reassure you that I
remain a slave to your ghost,
a constant, needy vessel
searching your poems for blood oranges.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
When you are open to living and trust the process of life and ready to face all your fears, and not afraid to go astray with life, life definitely comes and talks to you, in its own language.
—Roshan Sharma
_________________
Our thanks to Martina Reisz Newberry for joining us this Sunday morning, all the way from Los Angeles. Her most recent books are Never Completely Awake (Deerbrook Editions) and Take the Long Way Home (Unsolicited Press). She has also been included in anthologies and has been widely published in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad, and she has been awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts. Passionate in her love for Los Angeles, Martina currently lives there with her husband, Brian, a Media Creative. Visit her website at martinanewberry.com for information, purchasing, blogs, poems.
—Medusa
Cover, Never Completely Awake
by Martina Reisz Newberry
—Celebrate poetry!
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