4 poems by Martina Reisz Newberry

Martina Reisz Newberry’s most recent books are NEVER COMPLETELY AWAKE ( from Deerbrook Editions), and TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME (Unsolicited Press).  She is also the author of WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions). LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions)  and RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE: Collected Poems (Red Hen Press).

Newberry has been included in It Happened Under Cover, Ascent Aspirations’ first two hard-copy anthologies, also in the anthologies In The Company Of Women, Blessed Are These Hands and Veils, and Halos & Shackles: International Poetry on the Oppression and Empowerment of Women. She has been widely published in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad.

Newberry has been awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts.

Passionate in her love for Los Angeles, Martina currently lives there with her husband, Brian, a Media Creative.

Visit her website at martinanewberry.com for information, purchasing, blogs, poems.

 

 

 

POSERS

While the gurus tell us
confidence is key and self-love
is the foundation for everything
we can ever be, I watch the
Weather Channel and find
comfort in the apparitions of
tidal waves, how they dissemble
all the soiled places and wash
them clean as Eden.

 

 

 

FOUR IN PRAISE OF NAVEL-GAZING

I

Gauzy sky, I still love you.
Your gray prompting of regrets
(failures) have moved me
close to you; the rush of years
has erased all bitterness.

II

After all the time spent
looking for myself in
everyone but myself,
I’m still asking
what corsets me?
What laces so tight
up my back that
just breathing is a
well-thought out task?

III

Marching forward into an
unclouded sky, I was free

in a suddenness so intense
that it shook me to my shoes.

Voices around me made the
sound of terrified aspens.

IV

The night I disappeared
and never came back,
was a gift to you. It was
the only thing I had left
to give you.
Your gracious acceptance
shattered me, burned
my ego to ash.

 

 

 

THE DAY THE CLOUDS WERE GRIEVED

Dark red and purple–
new bruises in a sad sky
Scribble of light blue
runs through It hopes,
hopes immeasurably

 

 

 

  • BEFORE SLEEP

    Hardly anything beats the
    sound of trains–Their sly whistles
    singing out comings
    and goings as if they were
    conjoined twins, one and the same.

 

 

 

 

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