Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know it’s time for them to go
But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?
Where it Goes features a photograph by Eleanor Bennett
This is the leading epigraph to Where it Goes by Martina Reisz Newberry’s new book of poems from Deerbrook Editions.
Albino Carillo said this about Where it Goes, “Startling and surreal, intoxicated with love and lust in its images and her characters, the book achieves a rare form of history from the inside . . .”
We think Where it Goes is an exceptional book and we want people to discover Martina because we think she is a wonderful writer. Discovery is the big word we see around the blogs, the big issue for indie writers and indie presses. So please read these poems. Here is a preview of about one-third of the book. Tell someone about this writer. Please buy the book and help support our writers as well as the press. Maybe you can make a tax-deductible donation.
A fine poem from Where it Goes.
Mid-February Late At Night
Intimidated by the glass,
I reach to touch a near-full moon
suspended on a near-black string.
It strays across tonight as I
have wandered across blank paper,
decorum over and done with.
The strange bones of my hands find their
own way (hasn’t always been so).
Outdoors, the moon lights up the dirt,
hides behind clouds that start to spill
rain. The environment reeks of
failure and I, unmoved by its
intent, start to despise the rain.
I have stood in this place a long
time waiting for shame to produce
the wild, tender thoughts I’ve called up
in the past. Where is the book I’ve
not written? Where is the house and
the barn I saw when I slept then
wrote about when I woke? Where are
the lumbering animals that
will find their way back home and the
farm wife in her wrinkled jeans and
patterned apron? Maybe they’ve been
cast upward into God’s shadows.
I reach to touch a sky that has
filled my life with false promises.
The old olive tree looks so cold.
Soon it will be Spring: warm, blameless.
As always, deserving authors good books can be found at deerbrookeditions.com and thanks for visiting.