Search Results

Sestina for an ill boy Award Winning Poetry - 2016 Robert Frost Award Sugaring Sestina for an ill boy A loyal maple lingers by your bed: nature fiercely altered. Its sugar finds your pulse, then trickles in with a rhythm partly boy, partly tree. For comity we call it Mr. Pipes: a way of making peace with hard adjustments. It takes long freezing nights and thawing days to make the sap come like this -- a big run. Drip after drip, each steadier than the last, run through clear lines. I see, now, nothing’s altered that hadn’t already gone awry. Your limbs, thawing in the afternoon sun. The only rhythm -- rations of sap met evenly, at last, with insulin. The hard trek back from a seizure’s arctic grip: whistling pipes, banks of white cotton; a nurse (too cheerful) pipes up: how brave you are, and you’ll be up and run- ning in no time. A promise? Or a wish for her hard- luck kids? One spring, we got behind; buckets overflowed, altered the ground below to a sticky mat that sounded the rhythm of hard luck in thick, slow plops. The whole world thawing like centuries of ice cracking beneath us, thawing the gummy linings of blackened buckets and pipes – dripping with a precision suggestive of a subterranean rhythm. I read, that spring, that scientists can tell if the sap has run up from the roots or down the bark – but, not why its taste is altered year to year. Always the questions we care about that are hard. And “coming to” always the same: that hard expression sweeps over you. Your eyes, half-frozen pools still thawing: late winter, but late in feeling the seasons altered. Your way of banning ceremony, or welcome-horns, or pipes. Your way of taking back the small reserves that run from you each time you lose this fight. Your fitful rhythm yielding to this old-world, pacing rhythm. And knowing where to greet you, here or there, always so hard to gauge. Which is the place of the senses? Where we out-run our fears? You take us there, each thawing day, it seems. Limbs or pipes? We give up these distinctions. Nothing is altered that wasn’t already granted. Nothing is altered that makes us see things hard to see. Some call it god, others just tendrils thawing. Copyright © 2014 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Naugatuck River Review , Winter/Spring/ 2016. Reprinted with permission from Robert Frost Foundation . Semi-Finalist, Naugatuck River Review's 7th Annual Narrative Poetry Contest Previous Next

Index Previous Next Days Inn Everything about it says Economy: The rattan headboard; the fibrous spread catching us in its threads. The walls: thousands of sherbet-green fronds set against fading mountain ranges like sketches from the notebook of a British colonel drawn and redrawn absent mindedly then posted all around as friendly notice of distant, unattainable exotica. On the television, and perhaps part of the package: Tarzan and His Mate, 1934. The treasure hunters have, at last, dispersed. O'Sullivan and Weissmuller slip - searing and nude - into a jungle pool. So verdant and so bestial a scene that Jane's a body double. Sweet paganism, one critic called it to thrust a man and woman into love like this naive in one another's world until they kiss. Hardly the English Lord fluent in languages this Tarzan smothers upturned panting lips with a desire that covers her like moss. Part ape, Robinson Crusoe, sometimes Moses. His role, in any case, is to save Jane from herself. To teach her how to sail from vine to vine as though standing still. And when it comes to leaving, not to pale from choosing human nature over longing. God knows this kind of choice sees casualties. In Kansas City, in a single day, fifteen children fell from trees while practicing the victory cry of the great ape. In cinematic style, medics healed the noble savages with splints. And young boys cried from their sick beds, all hours, jungle-piercing calls. Noblesse oblige. Cities, of course, have burned to choruses like this. Love wants a jungle shower. . Copyright © 2002 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Published in Shenandoah , Winter 2003.

Index Previous Next First Place - Lazuli Literary Group Plan B And so, we are not to be concerned about living – but about living well. - Socrates, Dialogue with Crito I watch them settle in. David’s Death of Socrates on the projection screen. Clashes of colors like warring teams: a white toga hanging from a teacher’s shoulder; the blood-red robe of a servant, who holds out the deadly drink. An ancient story, someone else’s fight. And yet, the old man who sits upright to take the servant’s chalice. The absence of malice. Gestures like haunting glyphs. We open ourselves to what ifs. What if someone you love, someone who taught you right from wrong; drew you a map of valleys not yet drawn; rowed with you on a winding river: the labyrinth of your young years. A chance to visualize: a wrestling coach; a theater teacher tirelessly recapturing missed lines. What if this person you love comes under fire. A mob seeds hatred, until – like trees that burn too easily – they are cheering for his demise. Why. Because he is winning in an art his accusers used to prize: logic as leak-proof as a Grecian vase. Because he is gaining fans. Because they can. Suppose, like an extended hand, the mob gives your mentor a choice: Disavow all you ever taught. Apologize – or hemlock. They grasp for the extended hand. Why not sign a pity release? Spare your children and wife. Surrender – just for the moment – what defines your life. The boat for escaping is waiting in the bay. The judges want their take. What will history say if friends do not save a man accused in the wrong? Who will teach virtue if the teacher of virtue is gone? Scales that tip and sway. It must have weighed on Crito’s heart to learn the decision was already made; to arrive in a drafty cell for a teacher- student review – so late. How he misread the old man sitting on his cot: alone and unafraid. The question on his teacher’s face: How much are you willing to trade ? We weave, instructed, heart persuaded. We leave it – not for the Midterm – almost certainly for a later day. . Copyright © 2024 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Azure , Vol. 8, March, 2025. Winner of the Lazuli Literary Group's Fall 2024 Writing Contest. Other poems in collection: "Ethos, Logos, Pathos" and "Is There a Final Exam?". Editor's comment: I enjoyed the steady strain of brilliance and the profound sense of wisdom that runs through each poem, well-delivered through narratively evocative language and clearly intentional choices in poetic form! To cloak modernity in a sense of magic is difficult to do, and yet I feel your poems do so in a very useful way. I hope our readers find in these pieces the impetus for an examined life. - Sakina B. Fakhri

Index Previous Next Melville's Reader With an ease that belies his theme my boy slumps into a mold of his own small back. Chair or taffrail? The waves blend with his thoughts. And far, far out of range, I search my heart for a send off: To follow a runaway's lead? His optimism? To see our little horrors and be social with them? A summer breeze. And now the pages turn themselves; he shifts and shifts. Perhaps the helmsman stares now at the flaming try-works, sees the shapes: harpooners poling, pitching that hissing mass -- a reckoning so stark he slips into a soporific dream then suddenly comes to, but dead astern, his mind ignited wondering how to save the ship from being brought to lee. I remember reading that scene until I could recite it. But now, he lays the book like open wings across his lap and basks and basks in summer's luxurious light. I watch him like a swabber come to save a listing ship and keep a kind of vigil while he naps. Was God above young Ishmael as he packed his bag for Cape Horn, the Pacific? Or, in New Bedford, when he read the fate of whale men? An average, good-hearted, dreamer at the masthead. Watcher not watching, chatting with Queequeg. O little dreamer, never in more danger than on your sunny perch, move your foot or hand an inch, loosen your grip and midday, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through the transparent air into the summer sea. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Spoon River Poetry Review , Winter/Spring 2008.

Index Previous Next Synonym for Marriage Pledge – bond, allegiance, alliance, a yearning for a god; mercy, agape, grace; a chance against the odds; a dervish dance; benevolence. In a sentence: The first love was cherubic eros, a child with a flaming torch; gold and leaden arrows, one to arouse – the other for unfathomable sorrow. Deception – duplicitous, the let-down, the Judas Kiss; a double-crossing, ill offering; the trick among tricks that colors history. In a sentence: There was little doubt in ancient days that Medea, slayer of offspring, chariot-maid, was by a spouse – by the stars, by the forces of a spinning earth – betrayed. Forgiveness – pity, mercy, leniency. In a sentence: The earliest Greek dream for repentance is a stable to clean, its benches built for milking cows, not a sinner’s crawl; a purging of the stench of an unkept stall; a never forgotten love, Penelope’s woven – and unwoven – shawl. Faith – hope, truth, fealty, constancy; renewed belief. In a sentence: The ancients were sure the ring finger pointed to the heart. Hence, this never-ending band – once made of leather, bone, ivory – has no region, no mythic stop or start, no legend small enough to capture the difference in a master’s and a servant’s call. . Copyright © 2023 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Banyan Review , Fall 2023.

Index Previous Next From the book "Advantages of Believing" Beginner's Mind 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. Williams College Archives, 1978 Published in the author's book Advantages of Believing , 2015.

Index Previous Next Winner of the 1974 Emerson College Original Poetry Award On Rewinding I have been told that by wish and will I fell from His sheep- wool pocket into one dame's arms; and that was birth. I have been told that angels bowl; heaven opens up when the tenth pin rolls. I have been told of cloud-grazing mares— and twice it has rained cats and dogs. I have been told that Saint Peter saw a vision. I have been told that truth may be measured by the shade of one's tongue or the length of one's nose—and twice I have doubted my countenance. I have been told when 'neath the cornered quilt that the sand- man would alight and wave his sack of sleeping dust over my last Hail Mary. I have been told that woman is infamy; man sin. And I am the issue of both. I have been told to accept His rites and wrath. Yet, I have heard over grace and gossip. from bible and book, of womb-wrenching pain, of breached and blue-born, of original sin; and that was birth. I have heard of atmospheric pressure and tropical cyclones; and that was Hurricane Ann. I have heard that fishermen like their wine and all have visions. I have heard that the truth made Socrates stutter. I have heard that some men never sleep. I have heard that opposites attract (and gather ye rosebuds while ye may) I have heard that doubt is the stepping stone to knowledge, and knowledge is the end of man. I have heard too little of too much. And still as green as County Cork, I have but fingered man's seven selves. . Copyright © 2017 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the Spring 1975 issue of The Emerson Review . M.B., Weymouth North High School, Massachusetts, October, 1974 Contest judge - Charles Simic.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Forthcoming in Inventory , 2020 Prev 12 Next FROM LIBERTY TO LIBERTY Beauty by beauty poetry is made, stone by stone of light, image after image, in search of a rebellious language, to crush the loneliness and surrender. Barb, thorn, and wood, but also jubilation and rejoicing. Nothing impossible to our imagination, in poems restless and brilliant where the panther runs along verses and dreams. Disobedience by disobedience poetry is made. Wing and winged flight, until it becomes a rose of greater scintillation, to name creativity, the foundation of writing, in search of suicide comets and constellations in the work of the poem. Sirius and Cassiopeia. Oh, our language constructed with the rigors of unique words, uprising and insurrection. Enchantment by enchantment poetry is made. Navigation of verses to bring down frontiers rejecting blind obedience, and prohibitions, at times of darkenings and deceptions. To refuse principles of imposed acceptance and ruins, from which the dictators watch us, the wolves of cruelty, the censors and the concealed inquisitors, of the Apocalypse. Rebellion by rebellion poetry is made. Fighting darkness and dagger of insidiousness, tricks, handcuffs. With song, with odes and hymns of rebellious verse, armed with our poet’s words, sunset and sunrise. Fiery flight and contempt. Body by body poetry is made, in its unfathomable work of syllables and images, metaphors and rhymes, tumultuous and untiring heart, to fight the dark voices at the head of the bed. Grain and grape of clarity to save us, because poetry redeems but does not appease. Because poetry saves, but does not tranquilize. Dream by dream poetry is made, from utopia to utopia, equality to equality, by laying the poem on the table, on the bedsheet, on the knee, on the stubborn skin of the wrist. Our biggest weapon of liberty by and large. DE LIBERDADE EM LIBERDADE Beleza a beleza constrói-se a poesia, pedra a pedra de luz, imagem a imagem, na busca da linguagem indócil, a quebrar a solidão e a entrega. Farpa, espinho e lenho, mas também júbilo e regozijo. Nada é impossível ao nosso imaginário, em poemas inquietos e fulgentes por onde a pantera corre ao longo de versos e sonhos. Desobediência a desobediência constrói-se a poesia. Asa e voo voado, até se tornar rosa de cintilação maior, a nomearmos a criatividade, a fundação das escritas, em busca dos cometas suicidas e das constelações, no labor do poema. Sirius e Cassiopeia. Oh, a nossa língua construída com os rigores das palavras únicas, sublevadas e insurrectas. Deslumbramento a deslumbramento constrói-se a poesia. Navegação de versos a derrubar frontei- ras, negando-se às obediências cegas e às interdições, aos tempos de assombramentos e obscurantismos. A recusar princípios de aceite imposto e ruínas, de onde nos espreitam os ditadores, os lobos da crueldade, os censores e os inquisidores embuçados, do Apocalipse. Insubmissão a insubmissão constrói-se a poesia. A combater a escuridade e o punhal da insídia, as mordaças, as algemas. Com o canto, com as odes e os hinos de versos revoltosos, armados com as nossas palavras de poeta, poente e alva. Voo ardente e desacato. Corpo a corpo constrói-se a poesia, no seu insondável trabalho de sílabas e imagens, metáforas e rimas, coração tumultuado e incansável, a combater as vozes obscuras, à cabeceira da lonjura. Grão e bago de claridade de nos salvar, porque a poesia redime mas não apazigua. Porque a poesia salva, mas não aquieta. Sonho a sonho constrói-se a poesia, de utopia em utopia, de igualdade em igualdade, a deitar-se o poema na mesa, no lençol, no joelho, na pele ensimesmada do pulso. Nossa arma maior de liberdade em liberdade. Poem celebrating World Poetry Day 2013, done by the Directorate of the SPA. and set out on 21 March of that year in the Belém Cultural Center by initiative of the then president. Vasco Graça Moura . Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Forthcoming in Inventory , Princeton University, 2020 Poema comemorativo do Dia Mundial da Poesia de 2013, feito a coiwitc da Direcção da SPA. e exposto em 21 de Março desse ano no Centro Cultural de Belém por iniciativa do então presidente. Vasco Graça Moura Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis. Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next Winner of the 2013 New South Writing Contest Amber Alert A white Ford, black gate, Georgia plate, squeezes into our lane. In the back, a Whitetail – tagged and slashed from her chest to hind legs – looks back at us. Her eyes a dark glass. Opening day for deer hunting. Cars pass and pass. In a field, lightning bugs darted and flashed in your hand. Half-girl, half-doe, you started and stopped, palms cupped. Someone carried you off and we cheered for the boy in the clay, his heel on home plate. It was a beautiful steal. Did he thank the deer for her head when he knelt above her? When he opened her middle to empty inedible parts? When, for a clean job, he severed her windpipe and – hunter’s nectar – he saved her heart? . Copyright © 2013 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the 2013 New South Writing Contest. Published in new south : Georgia State University's Journal of Art & Literature , Summer 2013. Judge's Review

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Metamorphoses , 2019 Prev 11 Next POEM AFTER POEM Poem after poem I write poetry day after day, after night and startled I clench and I whisper and again the tumult Poem by poem I write the disquiet the translucent honesty of the wing, the harmony which desires the verse in the body of light Poem by poem I touch, assume the body of the work, fondling the language in a slow and inseparable indeterminable pleasure I dream, past symbol, past metaphor past syntax Word after word, after word after word… POEMA A POEMA Poema a poema escrevo poesia dia após dia, após noite e sobressalto cerro e sussurro e de novo tumulto Poema a poema escrevo o desassossego a translúcida lisura da asa, a harmonia que deseja o verso no corpo da luz Poema a poema vou tocando, tomando o corpo da escrita, afagando a linguagem num lento e indizível prazer indeterminável Sonho, após símbolo, após metáfora após sintaxe Palavra após palavra, após palavra após palavra... Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Metamorphoses , Fall 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Advantages of Believing by M. B. McLatchey 2014 FLP Open Chapbook Prize Winner - Finishing Line Press Publisher: Finishing Line Press M. B. has a real sense of the exuberance and playfulness of language … .This is not to deny the essential seriousness of some of her poems, but to praise them first as poetry, as investigations in the medium. – Lawrence Raab, author of The History of Forgetting The verses in this collection chronicle an earlier time in the author’s life as well as an earlier – and in some ways, foundational – poetic. A poetic, as E.E. Cummings suggests, that is more a way of seeing things than saying things. While the settings for the poems shift between continents – America, England, and France – the perspective, the way of seeing things, is undeniably that of the foreigner, the tourist, the disoriented – and yet somehow stewarded – young scholar. Whatever merit the poems present reflects the good guidance of the author’s former teacher and poet, Lawrence Raab. Published here for the first time as part of the Finishing Line Press Open Chapbook Competition, these poems hold true to Yeats’ observation that a poet’s life is measured out, inevitably, in verses. – M. B. Cover art: Isis Olivier http://isisolivier.com