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Index Previous Next 2012 Erskine J. Poetry Prize - Finalist Catharsis A portly man on TV says he’s eating jelly donuts since his doctor recommended more fruit. My head tucked beneath your chin, I feel you grin. A welcome joke – what Aristotle called a cleansing: the comedy channel in bed. A piecemeal purging meant to clear our minds, a chance to graft, like patchwork, the wreckage of our lives onto a campy figure, cheer for him; love him for dancing when the gods single him out, pile on their twisted trials. As if – for a few moments – we are watching someone else’s life unfold. Pizza and beer, you my armchair, tucked in our sheets. As if – for a few moments – we have climbed up from some well to lounge on sun-baked stone, take in the Dionysian Mysteries: lore of the vine – seasons, grapes, wine. Nothing ever truly dying. And us, tender initiates, laughing so hard we’re crying. . Copyright © 2011 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Finalist for the 11th Annual Erskine J. Poetry Prize . Published in the 2012 Spring issue of S martish Pace .

Index Previous Next Ode to the Heart In Memory of Fallen Eagle, Zachary Capra, ERAU 2018 * Heart, do what you do at times like this when all that Daedalus had warned comes true and Icarus goes tumbling to the sea. Plump up your strong defenses against parallels with myths and let a waxed wing disappear, and let his angels sing. * Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University (ERAU) trains hundreds of student pilots each year. A “Fallen Eagle” refers to one who tragically dies in an aircraft accident. . Copyright © 2018 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Of Poets & Poetry , 2020, a publication of The Florida State Poets Association.

Index Previous Next 2008 Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit Museum Hestia, protector of missing children, you with soft oil dripping ever from your locks, come now into this house -- draw near, and withal bestow grace upon my song. ― Ancient Greek prayer Historical pieces, these things of yours: a deflating ball, a bike not on its kick, but propped against a garage wall; a crestfallen lacrosse stick. Tours have come through as if walking the way of the cross: neighbors with pasta, a friend to awkwardly drop off a borrowed dress. Police with their pens and pads making calculations. A press release for the missing, accosted kidnapped, or dead; your photo, a ghost of a soul you had. Musee de Beaux Arts for the ambushed, the dispossessed, for guardians, who did not guard our watch, conservators of hellish thoughts, thoughts too wretched for talk. Prayers in place of a fight we would have fought had you called out. But what, after all, can our prayers do except repeat prayers from the past, and that surely God knew. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit. Published in The Comstock Review , January 2008.

Index Previous Next 2017 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi-Finalist Bad Apology As if in an endless rehearsal, I packed and unpacked. The challenge, you said, was to take no more than I’d need. Tenderly, you followed the track of a storm moving in from the east. In bed, a wrinkled map across our laps; you circled a town and highlighted a road. A yellow, satiny, path. When we slept, you tried the path, left markers you had kept for days like these. And the markers were keys. Clues in a moonscape of dust-covered things – a pair of gloves with suede tips; a scarf; a ring. Ruins like proof of a marriage, a story’s skeletal sheen, small deaths, small victories. Maestro, my mourning dove, another chance? Put me back in that place with its signals and gestures and promise of more mistakes. And I’ll show you the hurtful lessons lovers make. . Copyright © 2017 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. 2017 Narrative Poetry Contest - Semi Finalist Pubished in SWWIM , December 2017. Also featured in SWWIM March 2020 #TBT

Index Previous Next Snow Globe La Tour Eiffel. An April-snow like pollen covers a patch of stolid tulips. From the first platform, he leans over slick railings, leans as if in Keats’s scheme to drop and drop a red corsage to a woman below. I see it now: this is the one of 300 steel workers, who tumbled to his death clowning around. Her promise is to keep him from his fall by gazing back – his sentinel, his figurine against the filmy wash of elements against the fading colors in a dome. I shake it – not for snow – but to marvel at their hold. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Cider Press Review , Vol. 9, Spring 2008.

We have been together in Buddha’s gentle rain for days. Our robes are soaked through. I try not to long for things as your palm unwinds under my chin. You speak to me in the simplest language, Have a cup of tea. I sense your compassion but my ears are filled with water and the incense unnerves me. You cup my ears and whisper, Rozan is famous for its misty, rainy days, and, The sky is always the sky. I believe you, though I am not surprised. Perhaps the exchange should not be this intimate. The shadows near my eyes and across your shaved head make us tired and ordinary. You are an old man with dry lips. Perhaps your middle sags as you smooth my hair, my hair that was just so. Copyright © 1978 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the author's chapbook Advantages of Believing , 2015. Author's website: www.mbmclatchey.com Beginner's Mind

Florida State Poets Association FROM THE PRESIDENT’S DESK by Al Rocheleau Excerpted from Of Poets & Poetry , Nov/Dec 2020 issue. What a presentation by M.B. McLatchey! Last week I went to M.B.’s superb website at www.mbmclatchey.com to offer some commentary. I thought I’d share that with you: M.B. McLatchey presents herself without fanfare, but certain of what she knows, where she has come from, and where she’s going. As keynote speaker at the Florida State Poets Association’s 2019 Fall Convention, M.B. shared, for the first time in public, her thoughts and feelings for Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney, her mentor and dear friend of her graduate days at Harvard. Mirroring the self-effacement and common sense that emanated from the icon with whom she not only studied in class and at his home, but also shared Guinness and Porter’s Whiskey at a Harvard Square pub, the simple, elegant wisdom of Heaney’s art and his humanity rung through her with our assembly of poets. Telling aspects of his and their story, along with the kind of seminal advice from a master that working poets yearn for, she managed to reach every heart and mind in the room. A note: when reading M.B.’s own award-winning poetry, I find echoes of Heaney, his blood and his logic, combined with, for me, a kind of simply etched elegance that I once found in the pediments and friezes of Phidias in the British Museum. Even in her work that is contemporary, I get that feel, that clarity. There is timelessness to the work, as there is in that of Heaney, who can as easily reflect the paths of Beowulf as he can the ways of a child in County Derry, or the walks of a beautiful graduate student on the cobbles of Cambridge. M.B. McLatchey knows, and she connected us to Seamus Heaney, and to herself, and for both experiences, we are grateful. Just as you have come to know the poetry of Lee, Peter, and Lola, it’s time set your sights on Carol and M.B. ~ Al Rocheleau, President, Florida State Poets Association Note : M.B.'s keynote speech at the 2020 FSPA annual conference has been adapted into an Atlantic Center for the Arts video which celebrates M.B.'s time with Seamus.

Award Winning Poetry - 2004 Featured in Verse Daily Against Elegies What if we let you sing first? What if we look for you with Mallarme’s blank stare: birds round an empty dish, stony limbs? To tell the history of our grief we settle for an empty doorway and a maple leaf or a woman with neckcurls, named Jane, changed by her poetry teacher’s love to a wren wound in light. Shimmering anodyne. Elegies so resolute in wood or wings that we forget the truer measurements of unfinished things: the distance between two disappearing habits; the echo of a promise lodged in a warbler’s throat; the length of a dreamy boy swinging from his favorite limb; the ragged patch below — our ground for spotting him. If grieving is a way of working wood, building thresholds, wrapping birds — then hands will keep us tending things too near. What if this June air should circle, not fall on, our copper chimes with the passiveness of prayer? What if the breeze that would carry a bird’s perfect sorrow were to kneel at the base of an oak, and refuse to rise? Copyright © 2004 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in National Poetry Review , Fall/Winter 2004. Featured in Verse Daily ® with permission, 2004. Previous Next

Primary Sources Great Works of Ancient Greece, the Roman Empire and Middle Ages by M. B. McLatchey As a supplement to the wide variety of textbooks that students use in their Humanities courses, this collection of primary sources exposes readers to the original voices of the past. Primary Sources is a compilation of the most representative works from the Ancient Period through the Middle Ages, with annotations and introductions throughout to assist the reader. Significant readings from the modern era are also included to encourage the student to examine connections between ancient and modern ideas as well as discover the larger social and political questions that have defined Western civilization. Available on Amazon Book Details: Paperback: 282 pages Publisher: Independently published (July 10, 2012) Language: English ISBN-13: 979-8632406376 ASIN: B088BBNZVQ Product Dimensions: 8 x 0.6 x 10 inches Shipping Weight: 1.6 pounds

Index Previous Next Winner of the 2019 Folio Editor's Prize Ode for an Ode on a Grecian Urn Ode, let your sorrows go. Let brides be ravished, trees forsake their leaves, let lovers kiss and fade, daughters age. Let loss be the elixir that induces a new legend, new urn-dream: Forests that seed, mature, starve, and reseed without our overtures. Let wanting, waiting, pacing be the rings in carbon dating. A new museum piece. Imagine yearning bigger than an urn, bigger than god; desire out of bounds, desire crowned. Paint it fulfilled, the turning back of hounds. What good is song if not the end of one man’s wish, what-ifs? I died at twenty-five. So many do. Urn, make your story new: Beauty is truth when sung to a priest’s staccato voice and tone near a young marine’s too-heavy, too mature, burial stone; when love betrayed makes lovers stutter phrases – sweet clichés – that they used to say alone. Put it in stone: Beauty is truth when sung to the beat of a child’s quiet feet leaving home; when aging lovers sing to one another: Remember when we used to rock in one another’s arms and we knew god and the devil’s charms? . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Winner of the 2019 Folio annual Editor's Prize for Poetry . Published in Folio Volume 34, May 2019.

Amber Alert 2013 New South Writing Contest Winner “Amber Alert" is a poem that is so compressed it fools us into thinking it's only going to be about a road and a deer. The clean lines hold so much more – movement, murder, youth and sensual beauty stolen, worlds of boys and girls in collision, the hunter, the hunted, rituals, and poetry inside poetry – a "hunter's nectar." In the end, the poem offers a saving grace – “her heart.” -- Judge, Marilyn Kallet 2013 New South Writing Contest new south : Georgia State University's Journal of Art & Literature