Monthly Archives: April 2013

occasional poem for the 24th day of spring

Posted on April 14, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

Today is someone’s birthday but not in my house. The rising sap the snap of light against the window negate the chill say today someone is celebrating something and should just for the sake of the day unfolding.

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David Reads “The Shape of Mouths at Parties,” by Naomi Shihab Nye

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

Originally posted on David J Bauman:
Naomi Shihab Nye (Photo credit: Wikipedia) Another long day, and aside from the joy of coming home to my husband (to-be), and the purring ministrations of our cat Milton, a late dinner and a…

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Review of Biko Agozino’s “Today na Today”

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

Originally posted on Reflections:
By Noel A. Ihebuzor Title – Today na Today Author – Biko AGOZINO Publishers – Omala Media Ltd, Awgu, Enugu Year of Publication – 2013 I have just been privileged to read a collection of poems…

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The Gorgon

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

Chthonic beauty is less blessing and more curse. She was soft skinned before diamond scales flashed, before blood turned acid and hair streamed to a venomous, hissing river. Before she was gorgon and eye contact curdled skin to stone; that simple flesh that would have … Continue reading →

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the dis-ease of shared humours

Posted on April 12, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

We fall into love easy, that prismed insanity with no asylum seen as rainbows arcing cursive a name across April and are lost to some happily ever but it is the after that bleeds– tearing away what’s grown together not with scalpeled cleanness … Continue reading →

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worrying (bone soup)

Posted on April 12, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

If this love is all that’s left, let me gnaw it let me scrape all taste from its bones, if bones it is, and crack them for marrow. I am less committed than hungry, bone sucking. Sucking bone, (more) hungry … Continue reading →

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cutting

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Susan L Daniels

The old physicians knew what we take in must be let out, but slowly, feeding leeches or lancets if  ink is blood and language the pulse driving it poetry becomes phlebotomy.

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