
Left Bank Books, 399 N. Euclid, in the St. Louis West End neighborhood...
http://leftbankbooks.indiebound.com/event/rebecca-ellis-and-gaye-gampbell-peterson
Independent small press publishing poetry by women. Poetry reviews, reads, and musings.
Publishing The Midwest Women Poets Series chapbooks - New and established women poets redefining the personal geography of the American Midwest by uncovering the innovative possibilities of a voice that is female, central and pivotal.
For queries and submission guidelines contact: cherrypiepress[at]yahoo[dot]com.
And another one, with an equal amount of grit and good cheer in balance:Omens
There flew the gladdening red bird,
again, again, across my path.
There smiled the pale sliver of moon,
with a bright star at her side.
There bobbed upon flooded river, a bit
of trash that stayed afloat while I watched.
Here bloomed, after two years of making
only leaves, the purple ruffled iris.
There upon my cottonwood sat the
mourning dove – but his back was to me.
I am protected from grief.
I collected these omens so they’d tell me
the truth the way I wanted it to be.
Here on my stoop is one of my kept stones –
flecked gray, rounded, a solidity that reassures.
I turn its damaged side to a corner.
Corticosteroids
“Common: loss of balance; puffy face; chronic trouble sleeping.I am at my open door, breathing,
Rare: a sense of well-being.”
- from a list of side effects
as another day lowers.
Magenta stripe flashes a cloud belly
and Venus elevates,
hangs near my moon.
I let my attitude rise to her,
my lifted face newly full.
Some sort of conjunction, this new
aspect – between exaggerated
euphoria and dire possibility.
I’m awake on the high road,
tilting the light fantastic,
exalting for the stiff-jointed
marionette having left the building.
I am condensed to a quiddity,
leaning against my edges.
She moves away.
Comes back. Gleaming.
You might recognize gaye gambell-peterson as the artist of some previous Cherry Pie chapbook covers (Rotogravure, The Permeability of Memory, and the anthology Breathing Out). Here, she has again created the cover artwork, and also included half a dozen collages inside the book to illustrate her own poems.
pale leaf floating (ISBN 978-0-9748468-9-7) is $10, and available at Left Bank Books, 399 N. Euclid, St. Louis, MO 63108 (ph 314.367.6731). You may also order from Cherry Pie Press -- email cherrypiepress@yahoo.com for information, or download the order form from this blog site.
Rooibos Tropica
St. Mary of Victories
Wet, heavy clouds
crowd the ramp to the bridge.
Rain has washed away the morning's snow.
Concrete arches, rust stained,
hoist a precarious railroad bridge
over the river, the bottoms,
and the highway I drive on.
The old Powell Building,
its huge windows shattered,
its red bricks graffitied,
abuts the bridge's entry ramp.
The tower of an old church
anchors a neighborhood
that must have been there
before the highway, warehouses
and empty factories.
As I speed toward this growing dark,
a hint of rose at the back
of my mouth
surprises me,
blue mallow petals and lemon:a pool of yellow light
a small room in a walkup
a kettle on the stove, a day too short
for the work it held,
some warmth, some sleep.
Something fine
about the morning,
the mild wind,
Queen Anne’s Lace drift in the meadow
below the wooden porch
and beyond the cropped yard and garden.
Across the draw, the pasture’s
gray waiting, damp, quiet,
turns gold suddenly,
not at all startled
by the sun as it rises
above the oaks.
"Niki Nymark's beautiful poems revel in the relationship between hardship and humor. Whatever this poet learned in childhood from the quiet sorrow and disappointment of parents, she turns into joy and wisdom through her skill. These poems are defiantly youthful, passionately observant, and tender as a bruise."
Read some sample poems:
In Praise of Prose
Forsake poetry.
Prose is better—
more dependable,
less dangerous,
like that nice boy
your parents hoped
you’d marry.
Poetry is the one
you’d climb
out the window
to meet at midnight.
For Moishe
What have we found,
seventh decade love,
on the phone at night
telling jokes so old
no one else would laugh,
the Laurel and Hardy of ecstasy.
I slip on a banana peel;
you catch me in your arms.
I Regret Nothing
Turn and it’s gone,
the anatomy of youth
with all its succulence
and warmth.
Agreed, it took an eon
to make all the blunders
that etch my face.
Je regrette rien, rien.
Gravity tugs at
my attention,
hangs on my crumpled chin,
frightens me at night
from the mirror.
The brown spots
on my hands
are shaped
like little broken hearts.
“But are you not, as you said, your body. Is it not, in its own quiet heft, 2 percent your agile frame. I’ve done the math, twice. One night, on a dare, I tugged one of mine from its cup, placed it on the postal scale on my desk. It rested there awkwardly, weighed 2.5 lbs. Once I woke clutching them both, groping for a loophole, a patch of dry skin, guilty of having & holding what you no longer possess.”Erin M. Bertram's The Urge To Believe Is Stronger Than Belief Itself (ISBN 978-0-9748468-8-0) is available locally in St. Louis at Left Bank Books, 399 N. Euclid, St. Louis, MO 63108 (ph 314.367.6731), or from the publisher cherrypiepress@yahoo.com.
Last night I dreamt a bat, sonorous & without charge. Her toes were to be
trusted, a row of tiny nails, the way a nail, driven into a wall, can hold many
times its own weight. She hung herself by a high branch of a conifer with the
others, her leathern wings folded just so across her matted chest.
....he runs his hand
along my side,
rubs my shoulder blade
as if it were a seashell he just found,
trying to tease out the shape.
I'm sure her grandchildren are squirming, but the rest of us can enjoy the poem mightily.
And Mary Ruth Donnelly follows, indirectly, the adventurous footsteps of her mother, who skipped school to see Cab Calloway. Mary Ruth has hiked the cliffs above Chaco Canyon and retraced the Missouri River segment of Lewis and Clark’s journey, by car and partially by canoe. Her poems move out and move around – on the rivers and roads of the Midwest and the West – the woods, mountain, badlands, gardens, and cities. In her work, you'll see a search for permanence, for bedrock among the shifting post-modern mindscape and the accidents of life. You'll also see a wide variety of poetry forms, and a quietly strong and sustained voice that will draw you back, again and again.
In her “Coming Back to Mountains” she declares it's
not yet time to forget the mountains
the way they handle space
and nurture aspen
for a while
then break above them,
anthracite peaks piled on each other,
the solace of their jagged silhouette.
She's a surprising poet with a surprising range. Perhaps picking up on that heritage of slipping away to see Cab Calloway, she appreciates the art of dance in all its complicated geometries. From “Tango Pantoum”--
Your eyes are lined in red; my head turned right and down.
Tangueros keep their bodies straight as knives.
The street is dark, a dim bulb lights the narrow stairs.
The floor we rush along is smooth as Gardel’s lament.