Tag: Rain

Three Poems by Abby McCartney

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Self Portrait as Crossword Puzzle

The sign of a beginner is their loyalty
to their first answer. Once you’ve banged
your head against the grid for four
or six months, trying to earn sleep,
you realize: do it in pencil.
Most days I try to pack too many letters
in the same box. Sometimes
that’s allowed – another thing I
had to learn the hard way. I remember
the first time I realized the answer
could spill over the edge, up the sides.
I want the gold star, the answers
clicking into place like a seatbelt.
My favorites, though, are the puzzles
that make their own rules, crossing
YELLOW down with RED across to
make the Orange Bowl. My grandmother
did a Monday crossword every night
before bed, one family pattern
I don’t mind repeating. When she
fought with my mother, it was always
in pen. It’s the work of a lifetime
to learn to erase.

*

Elegy with Summer Rain

The thing about an untimely death is
overnight your recipes became holy.
Your voicemails are relics, your
Cowboys sweatshirt a talisman.
Now I can say your name without
crying. Usually. Sometimes I want
to complain about you as my friends
complain about their mothers:
She never called me, but she assumed
I had been kidnapped if I didn’t call home
by Sunday noon. Sometimes
I want the last book you gave me
to be a book and nothing
more. After the summer storm
the city is bathed in an eerie pink
light, even past sunset, refracting
off the bouldering clouds, making
the bricks glow like jewels,
making everything look wrong.

*

When my mother visits my dreams

When my mother visits my dreams
she wants to know what happened
to all her stuff.
We gave your loaf pans away, I say.
Sorry. Why did you have four of them?
We sent one to my cousin
for their first apartment, I tell her.
She nods. She is glad.

I worry how I will explain the rest:
TikTok, hybrid meetings, Wordle,
The new house my dad lives in
full of a woman she barely knows.
You were gone a long time,
I say.
We didn’t think you were coming back.

I wake and remember
all the things I forgot to ask.

*

Abby McCartney (she/her) is an emerging poet based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her work explores themes of grief, motherhood, and lineage. She spends her days working on education finance policy at the state and local levels and previously served as an aide to Senator Elizabeth Warren. She is also an active lay leader at Kol Tzedek Synagogue. In her spare time, she enjoys baking, reading, crossword puzzles, and walking her dog around South Philly. She holds an M.P.A. from the Princeton School of Public and International Affairs and a B.A. from Yale University, where she was a Truman Scholar.

Four Poems by J.R. Solonche

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THE RAIN

The rain gave what we asked of it.
It was generous, too generous.
It gave more than we asked of it.
Today it is enough. Today we ask it
to stop. Today we ask it to go away,
to bestow its blessing where it is
really needed, to a field parched,
to a lake too low, to a river crawling
on its knees, to a streambed with
the ghost of water, to a reservoir
starving for attention. The rain gave
generously. It poured its heart out
to us. It is we who have the greener
pastures, who have the greener grass,
who are embarrassed to be so envied.

*

A VERY BELATED LETTER TO ROBERT BLY

The first poet I wrote a letter
to was Robert Graves. He
didn’t answer. That was 45 years
ago. It might still be in the Dead
Letter Office on Majorca.
The second was to A.R. Ammons.
I told him about my letter to Graves.
He answered. He congratulated me
on improving my taste. He sent
me an unpublished poem called
“Zero and Then Some.” The third
letter is this one to you, Robert Bly.
Please don’t tell me you’re dead
and have been since 2021.
I won’t hear it. I know you’ll receive
this. You already have. I know
you’ll answer. You already have.

*

THE BUDDHA ON MY WINDOWSILL

has a big belly, a big cloth sack
on a stick over his shoulder,
a full bowl of rice in his hand,
and a big laugh on his face.
I, too, was fooled at first, but
later I found out that Budai’s
belly was full of laughter and his
cloth sack was full of laughter
and his begging bowl was full
of laughter and that his laughter
was his way of teaching fullness,
so I laughed and was with fullness full.

*

IN THE BEAUTY PARLOR

The woman in the beauty parlor
was talking about the people
she knows who just died, all
women. “Don’t you know any
men who died?” asked the hair
stylist. “You mean the husbands?
They all died years ago,” the woman
said. “That’s right, I remember you
told me,” said the hair stylist. “Yes,
God’s in His Heaven and all’s right
with the world,” said the woman.

*

Nominated for the National Book Award, the Eric Hoffer Book Award, and nominated three times for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of more than 40 books of poetry and coauthor of another. He lives in the Hudson Valley.

Two Poems by Michelle Menting

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When the Dewpoint is High

July becomes a box of water,
one made of cardboard that seeps,

inside out, outside in. If August
is the Sunday of summer, July

is Wednesday—middle child
simmering. There is no Thursday

month-summer. I forget the gods
whose names we’ve borrowed

for time. I forget which people
created them. But I know

in summer, I pine for waves—
water over land impartial: rocks

eroded to sandy tears, mud
the mating of silt & clay,

humus an orgy of oak & ash,
buckthorn & maple, all dead,

all resting. I’ll float above
them all, that plethora of textures

bottoming waters—those lakes,
& ponds, rivers & oceans holding

us in. Submerge and resurface.
Maybe all gods are swimmers—

so much closer are we to holiness
in the depths of the bodies we choose.

*

The Gusts Reached 60mph

and then the power went out. Leaving us
in a darkness resembling our lives, the pitch

of your voice when it drives to cut, to fissure
a wound as deep as the temper that craves

to carve it. There is rain in December
in Maine, a downpour of confusion

as much spectacle as menace. We kept
waiting: for the lights to flicker,

for the hum of white noise to fade,
for that power to finally go out.

I no longer set aside candles. The matches
stay in the drawer. I’m used to these storms.

I know how to prepare, but I’m tired.
This one too will pass. The sun will return,

heating too hot a ground that should be
dormant. Frozen. Listen, I know now: night

is a shield of darkness that I’ve learned
to rest with. To hide within its corners.

To wait. Then walk in the thick mud
of another season’s morning.

*

Michelle Menting lives across a questionable bridge in rural Maine. Her poems, flash fictions, and flash nonfictions have appeared in Passages North, Cincinnati Review, Diagram, Tar River Poetry, and other places. She teaches at the University of Southern Maine and directs a small-town library in midcoast Maine.

Rain by Marc Alan Di Martino

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Rain

It rained for the first time all summer
today. Rills of atmospheric runoff
filled the roof gutters, sloshed down the sides
of our house. The car glowed like a glazed
donut, or a dog freshly praised
by its owner. I read once how
in the youthful days of Earth
when all was barren and alien
it rained for 200,000 years straight
swelling the oceans, prepping land for life.
You have a debt to rain. You owe it this much: listen.

*

Marc Alan Di Martino is a Pushcart-nominated poet, translator and author of the collections Still Life with City (Pski’s Porch, 2022) and Unburial (Kelsay, 2019). His work appears in Palette Poetry, Rattle, Rust + Moth, Tinderbox, Valparaiso Poetry Review and many other journals and anthologies. Currently a poetry reader for the Baltimore Review, he lives in Italy.