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Three of my Game of Thrones poems have been published in the January issue of Poetry Magazine. Read them here. Some of these poems have recently been translated into Norwegian by Beijing Trondheim.
My #Madmen inspired, DON DREAMS AND I DREAM, was recently listed as one of “10 chapbooks you should buy” in Time Out New YOrk.
This is a new century. S is a clatter away from the moon,
for that stern shell of morning is now beating back in a swell.
Her narrow canoe-heart has been promised to a million tomorrows,
and again, nothing, but a pleasant whine and a white-gold tar,
and the upside-down air, that empty chapel, is a door swung limp
and what of the shaking heart?
S hears the key turning. She waits for that awful darting of memory.
The way our beneficent obituaries spider out, there,
into empty rooms, into sunken leaves, into falling towers.
isn’t it unreal, the way the exhaustion wells. She hears so many voices singing, but she is a damp and silent gust. Gutted.
What more can she give? and What more can she do?
By creating patterns, S rises to take pleasure in the changing lights
and the silver that runs past her door frames. This is a room
in the flat of the world, where the horizon is vast and the corner
of arm and knee is a small window-seat of soul. She wants to charge a fare to the world for interfering in her playing, but the fog-song of scent; that glittered ecstasy of knowing, that’s her small
bird singing. That’s her breath resolving. She knows this is a poem of truth.
Honored to be featured with these other great writers! Thanks Tiffany Gibert, Books Editor, Time Out New York
In the way-worth and the side-spent,
in the way, I break, in the way, I lend,
in the way-sought and the way I went,
In the way of horns and motors, in the way of musings over.
In the nights and the songs, in the weekends and groans,
I remain low on guesses and turns.
I have fingers lost in search and cold-fishings.
In the back way, in the water way,
in the way of more, I have crept too long in the striving.
What more has been decided?
In the before-ways, in the after-ways,
in the breakaways,
I will only say, soon. I said, soon.
© Umansky 2014
Thank you to John Ebersole & the Philadelphia Review of Books for publishing ” This is a Love Poem,” which will appear in my next full-length collection.
Originally posted on The Philadelphia Review of Books:
by Leah Umansky
I will herald my ghosts
I will braid our pasts
I will unlid secrets
I will forest bruises
I will strange love
I will cabinet the lies
I will haunch the hurt
I will expunge order
I will temper the liked
I will pale the bad
I will away the soiled
I will hush the undone
I will stab the fault
I will dream the lie
I will sweet the love
I will still the brood
I will play the stars
I will pronounce the naked
I will index chance
I will darling the crookt
I will soldier the dreams
I will pageant the breaks
I will cycle the jitters
I will sing the caring
I will belly the upset
I will feast comfort
I will turn the certain
I will empty the dark
I will flame the barbarous
I will shun the ills
I will repine…
View original 82 more words
Sometimes the thing is to keep the worth to stave-away, flaunted, and to kind what is uncertain. Sometimes the nave of a barrier is wrapped in story; the vice of what seems innocent is easily imitated and horned. Sometimes vestments are just barricades; careless wounds are just applied sadness. The afternoons are just wide-losses. The pleasure of what we see with our eyes is brief and the love we want is in the boughs. Sometimes the gathering of delight is seething and we are born into this too late. Sometimes time is a trick; the trick is time, or the trick is to not think about time. Sometimes we feel we have come too far already. Sometimes is a long word. Days feel moved. What is cast, is netted. I want a sea-wind to roam in; a call to send me home. Sometimes I show the last-times to my heart. I hold the wide-open with prongs. I want to free the crimson that hovers. Sometimes, I sing to the very end. I change the legend. Sometimes, I am the legend. Sometimes, the legend becomes this.
© Umansky 2014
and this is not about the line of duty,
but the bloodline within the heart.
In love, there is a bleeding over,
a letting out, or letting in.
Let me in on this, Snow, for six feet from the heart
is better than six feet below.
Below this un-handed world,
life is a myth: words are re-imagined,
into a rigorous tease and a learned dark.
You know, there is more blast, here, in the heart.
My world is strange enough with its ifs and its elses
The eager wild is what awards us.
The musted love anews.
Don’t let the tender, doom.
© Umansky 2014
I will be wide-flung in the next
there will be no need for signing in
I just want to grace it. I want to swing heads blind. I want to de-clutter the expectation. I want to objectify the past. I want to cast the plunge. I want to sun the hours. I want to courage the empty and then, scat away.
This would cause an end, or broaden waters, but the moment passes.
I am not seen in what turns.
I am one of yours
We can share the filth.
till, we lift off.
The stone of a moment is a foot beneath
© Umansky 2014