By: Mark Almand
A poem is a
A razor here
A stitch there
An explosion from a time past, a love abandoned, the swat of a drunken mother
Write it only if you
Have nowhere to go
No answered prayer
And the dry clicking seconds
Leave you desperate for a drop of water
On a swollen, cracked tongue.
A poem will open you
A poem will close you
Nowhere as mighty as verse
Is both blessing and curse
A poem is a
Note from the Marilyn L. Davis, Editor-in-chief: Mark has also done a tribute poem about one of our monthly contributors, Anwer Ghani. I love that there’s this kind of kinship among the writers and how Anwer’s expressive narrative poetry influenced Mark with the poem, Anwer.
Anwer is the bird that rests in your hand, tiny, blinking, breathing in starts. He flew to you from the desert. Fierce storms buffeted him, yet he flew on his beating wings. Now from his perch in your hand he manages a quiet aria. It seeks out your memories – memories of crust, memories that coat your throat, memories that crack in barren heat.
Anwer asks no questions. Anwer brings healing pulled from deep wells.
Bio: Mark Almand
Mark has been writing poetry since college. He really got going in 2017 as a way to help him deal with his mother’s descent into dementia. He is currently completing a book of poems tentatively called Here and After.
Favorite topics are the metaphysical, grief, love and faith. He has written one book, Claude’s Canvas, a memoir, published in 2010.
Mark is married with three adult children and lives in the foothills of northeast Georgia.
His first published poem was in University of Connecticut’s student newspaper, The Connecticut Daily Campus.
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