A publication of the Lifelong Peer Learning Program of the CUNY Graduate Center
by Carol Schoen
Rotund bodies, spindly legs,
ungainly, unpretty,
steadfast in their assigned
roles; barely noticed,
solitary sentinels
or gathered in clusters
over tenement roofs.
Resolute,
water tanks refuse
to be ignored, know
they will always be tolerated,
unpitied, unloved,
children.
Carol Schoen: She wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.
to Gabriel García Márquez
by Mireya Perez
From the silk and grosgrain
She encircled them in
The two thousand and more letters
He had written her
The first one in ink red as his passion
The second in the green of his hopes
The tenth in the cerulean of his happiness
The thirtieth in the lapis lazuli of his love
The seventieth in the indigo of his despair
The rest in the clean azure of his caring
The pages bleeding through to the next
Fragile parchment folded and unfolded
The words audible still, breathing to her
Darling
Dear
Sweet
Love
Kiss you
Miss you
Always
Spouting in her like bubbles from a water fountain
each one fully formed swirling around her feet
opening her toes, brushing her ankles
tickling her calves, penetrating her pores
seeking her breasts, the curve of her neck
the roundness of her cheek, the line of her nose
the secrets in her ear, the fragility of her eyelids
the smoothness of her forehead
detaining themselves to massage her back
the roundness of her hips, her softness beyond
Words soft, insistent
Words like whispers
Words pulsing
Words breathless breathing into her
Darling, dear, love, always
Mireya’s poems leap from English to Spanish and back again, invoking an array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, Revista del Hada, NYU Poetry Review, and in Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among other places.
by Mireya Perez
Where the crystal clear Li River
with limestone peaks border
Phoenix bamboo like furry green fingers
rising on the edges in where goats, oxen, ducks
beyond them gather blades, squares of rice paddies
lead to crossroads where farmers sit on plastic
crates playing cards
while old women carry infants on bent-over backs
No young people in sight
all gone to cities far, far away
We turn into the small road
to visit a farmer woman
in her concrete house with doorway
framed by large red New Year’s Day
good luck couplets
She welcomes us into her living room
offering us peanuts she grows
behind her an altar to her ancestors
“Here she lives alone,” our guide explains
we are urged to enter the room
behind the ancestors’ altar
the room for her future life.
Perplexed, we go into the dark, mostly
empty room ‘til our eyes adjust
to see a large gleaming wood
credenza, or is it a chest?
No, no, not a chest,
it looks like a finely carved boat
with pagoda-like uplifts on either end,
no, not a chest
then we realize
future life
this is the room for her future life.
Mireya’s poems leap from English to Spanish and back again, invoking an array of spirits. Her poetry appears in Caribbean Review, Revista del Hada, NYU Poetry Review, and in Anthology of Colombian Women Poets, among other places.
by Carmen Mason
When I think I’ve heard the last bad poem
when I want to give up on poetry
when I’ve squirmed through one more line
clichéd rhyme, hackneyed point of view
when love and free and blue
are duped to carry weight and fresh insight
when the trip the song the dance
are stopped, mute and deadly still
I give up
my lizard muse slides off the rock
no longer caring about thirst or
quick flies halted on its curling tongue
or scurrying into the green unknowingness
now all chore and drag
I give up
and slide along with it
the water taking us fast
all restless resignation
But oh
wait
there!
out of its good left eye
a glint a dot a something
something
there !
I grasp on tight and clenching
to its narrow cobbled back
leap
leap
leaping
its rider once again
into the green unknowingness
thirsting hungry
once again
Carmen Mason: She has been writing poems since she was six, has won poetry prizes throughout the years, has been published in small magazines and enjoys sharing her poetry at open mikes. She writes short stories and memoir, but feels her most intrinsic ‘voice’ is a poetic one.
by Carmen Mason
Do not think me a fool for love
swinging my legs open
on the surprised carpet
now we are divorced
sculpturing you to me
new clay not yet
mashed and pounded
fired into form
which cannot stand a fall
Do not think me a fool for love
it is just we were never
like this before
evenly spinning wet
unglazed without guile
hope, disappointment
Do not think me a fool for love
nor mistake this impulse
for our old desire
it’s just
we have become
the ancient font
half standing
in the neglected garden:
birds and flowers
circling it reverently
sensing its eagerness
to fall and fold into the
roots and remnants
to become the silt
of love again.
Carmen Mason: She has been writing poems since she was six, has won poetry prizes throughout the years, has been published in small magazines and enjoys sharing her poetry at open mikes. She writes short stories and memoir, but feels her most intrinsic ‘voice’ is a poetic one.
by Phyllis Kriegel
Rooms for rent at
Negative Capability Cottage
Private bath, clean towels, scenic views.
Few rules apply:
Cherish uncertainty
Delight in doubt
Mull over mysteries
Favor interstices.
Reject tired Marxists
New historicists and
Peckish post-feminists.
Heed Nietzsche’s wise words:
above all don’t strip existence
of its ambiguous character.
Phyllis Kriegel:
Dallied with Dante
Played at Proust
Cuddled with Kafka
Then it hit me:
Stories happen to those
Who write them.
by Phyllis Kriegel
And my salad days
When I was green in judgement
Have wilted, archived beside
Gentlemen callers, weekend lovers,
Blind date losers, elusive boozers.
No matter. Franz Kafka, my latest
Dream mate, has come to roost.
And when he agonizes and
Fletcherizes and exercises
I tenderly sing a Yiddish lullaby.
Phyllis Kriegel
Dallied with Dante
Played at Proust
Cuddled with Kafka
Then it hit me:
Stories happen to those
Who write them.
by Eileen Brener
The deafening roar, the stairs hip-wrenching run,
a quick jump before slamming doors: I’m on the subway,
ready to demand hand-space on a greasy pole.
Over the sweaty scent of the squeezed and harried
float astonishing sounds—a flute’s mellow notes.
“Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” blesses our trip.
Straining over and around, I see him, the man
with the magic. After the piece he passes his hat.
His audience, calm now and generous, comply.
As he moves towards me, I’m again amazed.
Stretched on his bare arms fiery dragons spit flames.
How many charms does a man require?
Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.
by Eileen Brener
I remember the telephone, a black
stem, deserving its own floor—
halfway down the steps from upstairs,
commanding its own table and chair,
though no one sat while talking;
somber, its operation required two hands:
one for the earpiece, the other squeezing
its mouthbox. There was a war on:
the question “is this call necessary”
preceded all conversations.
My grandparents seldom called out.
The midnight knell woke us all
We clustered in the hallway
watching grandfather’s slow
progression down the stairs
toward the clamorous sound.
Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.
by Eileen Brener
Say goodbye to sweet olive
tree-scented doorways,
to a tall camellia, a twig
planted for crimson
December blossoms,
to rainbowed tender sunlight
after biblical summer storms.
Goodbye to Sazeracs, go-cups,
two-stepping down Prytania
Street with the hallowed
Saint Aug marching band,
to a Carnival box: pink boas,
yellow sequined satin pants,
Pocahontas, E.T., Tricky Dick,
feather vests, all stained—
beer, blood, grass, wine.
Goodbye to dirge and jazz
funeral feasts, to holy
days and holidays
toasting Saint Joseph,
Satchmo and Huey P. Long.
Don’t look back—
the crepe myrtles’
lacy lavender arms
wave adieu, adieu.
Eileen Brener started writing poetry a few semesters ago in Sarah White’s study group and couldn’t resist responding to the optional prompt given each week for a poem based on our class readings.