New Poetry

The latest book by Martina Reisz Newberry is Where it Goes.

Albino Carillo said this about Where it Goes:

As a poet Newberry crafts lines of hot, personal intensities.

“In her new poems, Martina Reisz Newberry conjures the mytho-poetic, the natural, conjures the contact zone of the body in nature, fully aware of itself and of nature’s powers. Her poems are sometimes harsh and honest about the self in relation to others, and the lived life: human, to be sure, meditative in the face of death and ruin.”

Albino Carrillo, Author of In The City of Smoking Mirrors, is Associate Professor of English, University of Dayton, Dayton, Ohio.

Here is another favorite poem from Where it Goes.

Mustard

When Bukowski was alive,
poems still seemed possible.
Bukowski was one poet
who thought it was lame
to write about butterflies
and rainbows,
unicorns
and fairies.
He wrote the real thing;
about how the horses were running
and which ones were winning
or about rain on a pavement
that will never come clean
because it’s Los Angeles
and those streets
don’t recognize clean.
Poems had hopes for continuing
when Bukowski wrote them.
Poems had grease on the paper
and cold coffee in the chipped mug
and eggs over easy.
Poems smelled like bacon
and burned toast,
could be found hiding
in the white shorts of
a seventeen-year-old hooker
down at Santa Monica
and El Centro,
or in the tuck-and-roll upholstery
of a ’55 Chevy.
Poems boggled the mind in those days.
Poems were like
the best hot dogs
you ever ate
on Dodger Day
at the stadium.
Lots of mustard
so it gets on your shirt
and nobody in the bleachers
talking about li ter a tchooor.
Not a word.
Mustard
Just watching the game 61
and downing Dodger Dogs.

When Bukowski was alive,
there was a chance for poems.
They hung out in the donut shops
and the not-so-trendy bars
and they were boiling up in the car radiators
and cozying up together
in heat-tossed beds
on a mattress
that had seen better days.
When Bukowksi was alive,
poems were wicked and nasty
and if there were any little birdies
in those poems,
it was because there was bird poop
on the windowsill.
It used to be that poems led,
lives followed;
seems like now they trailed off somewhere
leaving no breadcrumbs
so we could find them.
There ought to be answers
in this poem before it finishes.
Still, when Bukowski was alive,
and it came to showing him the door,
his only answer, clear and clean,
was, “Get your foot outta my ass.
I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s