Your Violet Hair Ribbon

“Your Violet Hair Ribbon” by Stephen Page

Last night you slept with your head on my chest,

My nose in your hair.

While I dozed the violet ribbon upon my wrist

Broke and fell off. This morning I searched for it

But could not find it, anywhere. I tied a new one

To my ankle. Hid another in my journal cover.

Did you have the same dream I did last night,

You with your head on your husband’s chest,

My wife with hers on mine?

madswirl editor’s note: A ribbon of deception; identities mistaken, lovers mismatched. So hard to awaken… – mh clay

To read MORE mad poetry, visit http://www.MadSwirl.com!

http://madswirl.com/poetry/2019/08/your-violet-hair-ribbon/

As published on MadSwirl

And included in the book, “The Salty River Bleeds,” by Stephen Page https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-salty-river-bleeds-by-stephen-page/ and published by Finishing Line Press.

October, by Louise Glück

October
By Louise Glück
Quarterback Chapbook Series
Sarabande Books. $8.95. 20 pages.
Reviewed by Stephen Page

Autumn After the Fall

October CoverWhile I as reading Louise Glück’s chapbook “October”, I noted a theme that threaded throughout the poem–aftermath. October has always been a special month for me. A time of change. A time of clarity. It begins with the autumnal colors in full show and ends with the trees bare and sometimes a first snowfall. I remember October well when I was growing up. It was a month of crystal cognizance. The air smelled of damp earth and drying leaves. Each breath I took cleared my mind and brought in focus my sense of being with the world. I felt good. But, there was also this lurking feeling of finality. Another year had passed. Summer was over.  I often asked myself, had I done what I wanted to do this past year, or was I in the same place is was last year? Had I accomplished what I needed to accomplish? Most often, I had mixed feelings, yeses and no’s, a sort of sweet melancholy–sad that the year was over but happy that another year was about to begin. I had another year to do what I wanted to do. Yes, as a child, the New Year was always in October, not in January. It was an end, and a beginning. Winter was on the way and, yes, it would be cold. There would be snow. But, snow to me meant snowball fights, snowmen, snow angels, snow-caves cut out in the banks on the side of the road that the snowplows piled up, and of course, snow days—those special breaks from school. Winter represents death to many people, but it meant fun and rest for me. Trees, plants, grass–they weren’t dead, they were just resting, sleeping late, waiting to wake up in spring and flourish in summer. After winter, there was spring and summer vacations, baseball, girls.

Life on earth is measured in seasons and renews itself yearly. For Glück, as I think it is for most North–Hemispherians, October is a sad month, but one that also has hope.

Part I of “October” goes like this:

It is winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted

didn’t the nether end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters

wasn’t my body
rescued wasn’t it safe

didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury

terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted—

I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t the vines climb down the south wall

I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground

I can no longer care
what sounds it makes

when I was silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound

what it sounds like can’ change what it is—

didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted

didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,

the vines, were they harvested?

Something obviously traumatic has passed here. A scar has formed, terror has happened, something was planted but is no longer there (and I think it is more than just plants in the garden) for the “wind whistled over the bare ground.” The narrator was devastated by an occurrence, so much so she was “silenced.” Most notable is the poem’s form—short lines, long sentences—making the poem appear tall.

The entire poem continues like that–short lines, tall poem. And the there is a horrible sensation of after-violation sliding down the poem:

Violence has changed me . . . (repeated twice in part II)
everything that was taken away . . .
you can’t touch my body now.
It has changed once, it has hardened . . .
My body has grown cold . . .
balm after violence . . .
Tell me I am living,
I won’t believe you.
Death cannot harm me
more than you have harmed me . . .
the light has changed . . .
you will not be spared . . .
the unspeakable//has entered them . . .
I strained, I suffered . . .
So much has changed . . .

Yes, something has happened, and I don’t just think it is the harvest. Because of the form of the poem, and some of Glück’s references, it seems something very tall has come down, or collapsed. Something that was once there no longer is:

They eye gets used to disappearances . . .
Above the fields,
above the roofs of the village houses,
the brilliance that made all life possible
Become the cold stars.

Glück might be talking about an object, a tall structure (or structures, if you notice the plural is used in the relation between the words “disappearances” and “become”), or she might be talking about ideals (as she refers to often in part IV). She might be talking about both. Whatever the case, she uses the barren-field association of the month of October as representation of something monumental that no longer exists on the horizon. A careful reader will note that October obviously comes after September, and that two monumental somethings fell once in the month of  September.  Glück does spy a kind of hope though, as she leaves the poem on a positive note

my friend the moon rises:
she is beautiful tonight, but when is she not beautiful?

This Review first published in: Gently Read Literature

Read the review on the Issuu site: Gently Read Literature Issuu and turn to page 18.

The Philosopher Savant

North of Oxford

ps

.

Review by Stephen Page

.

In the first poem of the book the narrator, as a young boy, skips church and wanders the countryside, discovering new truths, learning he is able to think for himself, coming to his own conclusions about himself and the world, and finding out he is not bound by non-secular dogma. This is where the Philosopher Savant comes into being.

The book follows the remembrances, dreams, fears, evaluation, assessments, and vision of the Philosopher Savant. He is an average person, a father, a householder with a job—but he has a vagrant soul and the fugue vision of a shaman.

Larson writes in the veins of Whitman and Shakespeare. Some of his poems read as contemporized sonnets, and they have as much genius entwined as Shakespeare’s.  While reading the poems, I had a feeling of transcending my self, a oneness with the “all”. The thesis of…

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Finally and In the Room of the Dead

zymbol-2-cover copyZymbol 2: Autumn/Winter

Poetry by Stephen Page

Finally

While it is yet dark I slide from between
the sheets, pad to the kitchen, brew coffee,
and pack sweetrolls in a plastic bag. I strip
off my pajamas, shower myself with insect
repellent, and put on yesterday’s clothes. I
shoulder my backpack, and slip out the back
door, closing it quietly behind me. In the vestige
of moonlight I walk past the barn, feeling the dew
wet my ankles. Just inside the edge of the
Wood I breakfast on a treestump. Two barn
owls screech at my invasion and leave their
branch perch. A bat flaps violently by my
head. I roll marmalade around my tongue
and smell fecund earth spiced with decaying
leaves. A silver fox darts across a clearing,
and I unseat myself to wander the wood.
In the penumbra of trees I walk–I listen to
silence–I do not feel the weight of my
pack–I misplace time–an hour when I click
the light on my digital watch. The Myth
I seek does not appear but feel I was close
to finding it, or it finding me. A wooddove pops
its wings as it departs eucalypti mist auraed by
a vanilla sunrise. Treefrog croaks crescendo
then stop as I exit the treeline. A peach sun rises
behind a windmill as I cross the field to breakfast
a second time, this time with my wife.

In a lemon tree behind our ranchhouse, I discover
a newly made wasp nest bowing a brace of branches.

In the Room of the Dead

Mothballs permeate.

Grandfather slits open
A forty-pound fish
From anus to throat,
His nostrils flaring
At the effluvium.

Grandmother sits upon the lap
Of her gray-suited father,
Her pale dress fluttering
Above her chubby thighs,
Their skin dusted
With corn silk,
Stubble in the field
Behind them.

Your high-headed friend
Who prefers blue oxfords
And khakis with loafers,
Who planted the blooms
That perfume your garden,
Breathes ether and oxygen
Through a plastic mask
And winces at each needle prick
Of the vein-finding nurse.

You mother in lavender chiffon
Who swallowed every morning
whole garlic clove
Wheezes in a sanitary cloud
Of baby powder,
Her stomach cancer
Taken over.

Your father, a tall man
In a baker apron,
Sips aromatic yerba
In front of flock
Of sparrow, the birds
scuttling upwind
Of his diabetic
Gangrene feet.

An antique wool blanket
Is folded neatly
Upon the foot of the bed,
And atop the cedar chest of drawers,
The sliver frames
Never quite tarnish to black,
But remain a constant state of gray,

The chromatic faces stilled
By the opening of the door.

 

these poems published in Zymbol

Alternative Cover Copy
         Alternative Cover Copy

Zymbol logo

Stephen Page Teaching English

A Haunting Poem Fit for Halloween or Day of the Dead or All Souls’ Day

Charlie Chaplin doll largeThe Night is Long
By Stephen Page

red and green walls
melt from the ceiling
red and brown ducks
paint the windows
a hanging witch
a reminder of Salem
12:00 12:00
the hour of evil
a female nude stands
in shy sexual wanting
cold as stone
from sculptor’s hands
my clothes are scattered
in some semi-order
my room is displaced
in time and location
Pluto’s guitar
her lovely remembrance
strums and plays
A song for daughter
Charlie Chaplin
sits on a shelf
his staring eyes
sadly know all
five o’clock now
the mourning bird sings
a song for me
the death I’ve lived
a week has passed
in eight long hours
a moment ago
it was tomorrow

*This poem first published in “Our Reader’s Quarterly”
Editor: Gene Brill

The Timbre of Sand by Stephen Page

The Timbre of Sand, by Stephen Page

with reviews, comments, and links below

TheTimbreofSandBookCOverPhtoto
Book Cover

Front Cover Photo Timbre
Book jacket cover design
 

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Reader Comments
The Timbre of Sand Back Cover comments
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Columbia Spectator comments The Timbre Of Sand

 

Links to buy Timbre:

PaperBack Swap

Amazon

Amazon 2

Tematika

The Timbre of Sand

By Stephen Page

 further comments

“The poet chooses to make the sonnet form contemporary and succeeds in creating a powerful and distinctive music . . . Keats-like in the sensuous attention to language and its cadences, The Timbre of Sand adds to our consciousness of the world and nourishes us in the process. With his first book, Page makes an impressive debut that deserves an enthusiastic audience.”

                                                      —–Colette Inez – author of Clemency and Naming the Moons

“He is able to take a microcosm and create a universe . . . I find his ear for language the caliber of some of the finest poets.”

—–Ernesto Sabato – author of On Heroes and Tombs and The Tunnel

“His poetry is distinguished.”

—–Raymond Kennedy – author of The Bitterest Age and Lulu Incognito

“It is as good and as stylish as any I have read in Atlantic Monthly or the New Yorker. Steve will only continue to grow in his craft. He is a writer of unusual promise.”

—–Leonard G. Shurtleff – writer for The Economist

Page should be applauded. It is always of interest to see how today’s poets approach strong measures, and the quantity of his one straight shot is impressive, not to mention quite good quality. It definitely makes for a very nice song.

—–Shaadi Khoury – The New York Spectacle

“Full of science, philosophy, mathematics, and meter.”

—-Jennifer Chris – The Detroit Chronicle