Tag Archives: poem

“Bivalve Evening” Poem by Matthew Sorrento

Little Jesalee finally
shucked her first shell.
For months, the preteen
was only allowed
to shovel empty oysters,
crunching loud
into the pail.
The broken bits
smelling like hot streets
she'd left in Baltimore
across the bays
before coming to Bivalve, NJ.

Her family shack
was some way in the marsh;
though no shore seen there,
the shuckers owned the air.

The knife was heavy, but her
mommy held the wood handle
steady in her hand,
showing just
how to break it open
and get the meat
for frying.

Jesalee held
the smooth inside,
as mommy rushed
back to work.
Shells fell on and on
and, for the girl
never stopped,
long after she'd left.


A tribute to the transplanted shuckers of Bivalve and surrounding areas.

Matthew Sorrento is editor of Retreats from Oblivion: The Journal of and Film International Online. His poetry has appeared in The Five-Two and The Ekphrastic Review, and he has contributed reviews and essays to the Los Angeles Review of Books, CrimeTime, and Noir City Magazine, with introductions forStark House Press Crime Classics and booklet essays for Arrow Video. He teaches film studies at Rutgers-Camden, and his edited collection, Becoming Nosferatu: Stories Inspired by Silent German Horror (co-edited with Gary D. Rhodes), is forthcoming from BearManor Media. 

Matthew says about this poem: “The poem reflects the experiences of late-19th/early-20th-century Delaware Bay oyster workers in South Jersey, many of whom came from the Chesapeake. I have provided a link about their history, in case it’s of interest. “


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A Journey Through Indian Tea Gardens (3 poems by Sarah Das Gupta)

Up in the Clouds
Christmas Eve,
a scatter of snow.
Cold, very cold
as only the mountains
can be.

Darjeeling, midnight,
bells ringing,
ghosts of the Raj
dream in cold tombs
of lost Indian summers.

Kanchenjunga,
the sacred mountain
Her five peaks
the five treasures
of snow.

Salt, gold, jewels,
sacred scroll,
impenetrable armour,
guarded by
demons of old
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey
Who was the first, original Earl Grey?
People ask in a quite careless way.
He was a British Prime Minister
Always charming, never sinister.

Bergamot was mixed with a black tea.
The citrusy flavour was the key.
This is very much a royal brew,
But humbler folk can purchase it too.

Bergamot oranges flavour the tea
which grow mainly in France and Italy,
a hybrid of oranges from Spain
and lemons grown in South Asian rain.

A Chinese mandarin made the tea
Blent it with bergamot for no fee,
but as a free gift to my Lord Grey.
So, the famous blend was on its way.

Grey lived away in the far North East.
Limescale in the water never ceased.
But the Bergamot redressed this flaw,
which popularised the tea much more!

Its fame quickly spread throughout the world.
The banner of ‘Earl Grey’ was unfurled.
Yet few knew who he could really be,
as they chatted and drank this great tea!

Note; The reason for the mandarin’s gift is
disputed. It is said it was in thanks for Grey’s rescue
of the mandarin, or his family.
A Nice Cuppa
Walking through the gardens
in the cool of the morning,
above loom the mountain peaks,
Green leaved tea bushes
wash against the skyline,
waiting to be picked.

Bright dots of colour,
the pickers are scattered,
on their heads, conical hats
of neatly plaited straw.
On their backs baskets
bags, full of loose leaves.

Behind the tea gardens,
like a scene from
a Bollywood romance,
rise the five peaks of
the mighty Kanchenjunga,
mysterious, snowcapped
sacred, home to
a fearful mountain monster.

Early morning mists
drift through the valleys.
In the East, a pale, orange
banner waves across
the lightening sky.
Ghosts of the Raj
linger among the hills,
lie in the churchyards,
dreaming of sipping tea
beneath Indian skies.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has also lived and worked in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in twenty countries from Australia to Kazakhstan. It has appeared in over 200 literary magazines and anthologies including ‘The New English Review’, ‘ Moss Piglet’, ‘Songs of Eretz’, ‘Quail Bell’, ‘Waywords’, ‘Cosmic Daffodil’, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Ashes’, ‘Hooghly Review’, ‘Meat for Tea’, ‘Rural Fiction’ and many others. This year she has been nominated for Best of the Net’ and a Dwarf Star’.


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Five Poems by Gale Acuff

Five Poems by Gale Acuff
Just when you think you're dead you're not--you're up
 
in Heaven or down in Hell, eternal
life is what it is in either place swears
my Sunday School teacher, she's 25,
old enough to know or to know better
I guess and I'm only 10, I don't know
beans but I do know that I like living
and I don't want to die but I have to,
it's like a law of God's although Adam
and Eve and Satan account for it but
then again God always knew they'd bring death
into the world, that's just the way it was
and without all the bad stuff (which ain't so
bad but good) we'd have no Jesus and that's
pretty much religion. I hope that’s all.
 



If you're religious then you never die
 
swears our Sunday School teacher but it's got
to be the right kind of religious and
that's ours she ends then smiles so we ten-year-
olds smile back and then she sets us free for
another week when we'll return for more
God-and-Jesus-and-the-Holy Ghost and
as I walk home from church and Sunday School
I'll be thinking a little more about
death than I did the week before and I
still don't want to die even though I get
eternal life in Heaven, if God sees
that it’s good--I'd be satisfied with life
that never ends down here on Earth but no
luck. Even Heaven doesn’t measure up. 





Everybody loves Jesus my Sunday
 
School teacher says, that's why we crucified
Him, then she set us ten-year-olds free for
another week but after class I asked
her what she meant, it sounded some stupid
or at least very intelligent but
she looked up from her Bible where she was
buried in the red words, they belong to
Jesus or at least He's the one who spake
'em and I wanted to ask, too, what red
words look like when they're spoken, it’s a fair
question, but I forgot it when she said
What I mean, dear boy, is that it's all in
God's plan for everybody so I said
Yes ma'am. Then left and walked home. But quicker. 
 




When you die you're dead for good my Sunday
 
School teacher says and maybe she's right but
maybe she's wrong and I guess I'll find out
when I die and if I do, find out that
is, I'll report back, if that's possible,
but I'm betting it's not, no one has yet
that I know about but then I'm only
ten years old, I don't know about any
-thing, really, except that I don't want to
die at all but I'm not sure that's knowledge
and after Sunday School today I asked
our teacher if there's a way I can tell
everybody when I'm dead what it's like
over there but she only smiled and asked
Over where, Dear? Do you mean over here? 
 




One day you die and then there's the resur
 
-rection but not really, you stay dead, on Earth
anyway but maybe there really is
an immortal soul and it lives again
up in Heaven or down in Hell if you
can call Hell life, maybe so though at church
and Sunday School it's not much of one but
anyway if I get to live again
I'd rather do it hereabouts, on Earth
I mean, and kind of take up where I left
off before I kicked, still alive that is
and maybe having fun--maybe I died
by falling off a mountain but if I
could live again I'd have a parachute
or a longer, stronger rope. Or not leap. 
  

Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. He has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine, where he teaches at Arab American University.


“Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf”: Jorge Luis Borges translated by Alastair Reid — Buenos Aires Poetry

Extraído de Alastair Reid, Weathering : poems and translations, New York : Dutton, 1978, p. 124 – – Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf At various times I have asked myself what reasons moved me to study while my night came down, without particular hope of satisfaction, the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons. Used […]

“Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf”: Jorge Luis Borges translated by Alastair Reid — Buenos Aires Poetry

vespers [end of august] :: louise glück — poetry

End of August. Heat like a tent over John’s garden. And some things have the nerve to be getting started, clusters of tomatoes, stands of late lilies—optimism of the great stalks—imperial gold and silver: but why start anything so close to the end? Tomatoes that will never ripen, lilies winter will kill, that won’t come back in spring. Or are you thinking I spend too much time looking ahead, like an […]

vespers [end of august] :: louise glück — poetry