Evie Ivy


Credit photo: Bob Heman






The Cat 


I sat with a mind plagued

with a disturbing thought


and feel there’s a sniffing,

a breathing by my ear,


as if it tried to take

away, alleviate


my thoughts. I turned to see

her golden eyes, her black


and white face. Observing

this, God’s lovely creature,


I forgot what it was

that I was thinking of.







Plated Moon


I thought it was something so wonderful

and it turned to be an ordinary thing.

I thought I could forgo what wasn’t just so,

because this may truly be the genuine,

but it stayed all too regular. Maybe less.

One must give attention to the other side

of things. I may have been blinded, by what?

One of those mistaken things, or maybe

I was mistaken for something I was not?




The Wheel


She was once her mother’s doll,

cleaned with care and hugged

and proudly wheeled.


At the doctor’s office mom now waits,

bears the weight of almost a century.

A knit hood around her head,

and a black coat – is just strapped

tenderly about.


Now and then her head drops

as if pulled by a past remembrance.

Was it in old Havana? Old San Juan?

El viejo Nueva York?

An ivory shawl drapes over her knees

to where her feet are crossed

in pure white socks and soft

black slipper shoes.


Her now grey doll returns

holding a new appointment.

She exchanges a few words then proceeds

to wheel her home, as clean and hugged

and proudly wheeled as she once was.







Olden Chants


The sun, the giver, whom the ancient

Egyptians called “Lord” runs through us all.

I dream I walk in the procession for Amun Ra.


And nothing was said because too much good

can turn bad, but too much bad is worse.

Some dance or they chant as they move.


Here, question nothing walking under the light,

and feel there’s movement in the light. My feet

know the ground and I’m one with the star.


We melt into one and all flows forgotten,

as we walk in the procession for Amun Ra,

the sun, whom the ancients called “Lord.”




The Couch in the Dream


Even in a dream the truth is important.

How is that when dreams can be so abstract?

I dream I don’t want a couch taken away.

Two men have come to remove it. I tell them—

“Why are you taking it away?

Was it the company that said so?”


“Please tell me the truth! Tell me,” I demand.

The couch seemed to have been special to me.

I start to wail and wail as they start picking

It up at each end. “Please tell me,

it was the company? Tell me.

Tell me the truth.”


My sad and loud constant wails awoke me.

Even in a dream the truth is important,

Even in dreams where things are so surreal.




Related to the Wind


A gentle quiet Brooklyn breeze

Lifts away the curtains to come in

And lightly touch on everything.


Oh, gentle quiet Brooklyn breeze

You swept the hair to cool the minds

And ruffled skirts to touch the feet

That walked about the Trojan hills.


You feel good but what can you foretell,

So gentle, quiet Brooklyn breeze

Who is a partner of the wind?


You circle Earth a touching poem

Yet no one hears your narratives;

You share your secrets with the moon.




Crystal Things


I love things clear,

the clean diamond,

the clear topaz.

When things show

themselves in full,

with no guessing,

complete feeling

of clear water.

I like the diamond

and clear topaz.

I like obscurity—

in a poem.

I love the clear day

and crisp night.

The honesty

of the clear moment,

like the clear foam

of a wave washing

into the beach.






Little girl new in ancient

dangling braids,

little girl new speaks

the olden language.


Don’t write poems about

the moon someone said,

it has too long been sung to.

But the moon with


Each eye is new;

the little girl will wear

twinkling beads, like stars.

With music on her fingertips

she’ll swirl in oceans

of fabric, among clouds.


Little girl new in ancient

dangling braids

will perform the ageless dance,

as long as the moon beams out—

the cool and royal

rays of Ra.







Poetry Thin Air – Poets Montage:


New York City’s top poetry cable show, Poetry Thin Air, in a feature-length montage of live acts. Performing poets: Jean Lehrman, Beat legend Gregory Corso, Ice, Bob Holman and Evie Ivy. Episode 13 in an ongoing interview-montage series. Director-Camera is Mitch Corber. Contact the poets: poetrythinair@earthlink.net.
















Evie Ivy, is a dancer poet in the NYC poetry circuit. She enjoys writing in different poetic styles –free verse, syllabic and metric form. She produces Dance of the Word, a program combining poetry, dance, music and song. The pictures are from performances taken by Bob Heman and other friends. The poem “Untitled” comes from Evie’s dance collection— “The First Woman Who Danced.” It was inspired by a little girl with braids riding the subway. The book includes most of her poetry based on her experiences with the dance, and as dance instructor. She also has an upcoming collection “Cinquain, My Dear Cinquain » and “No, No Nonets” a collection of poetry in syllabic nonet style. She has 3 chapbooks published, the most recent, “Selected Cinquains” was put out by Grey Book Press. “Crystal Things” and “Related to the Wind” have appeared in local NYC publications. Evie also has been hosting a poetry reading, The Green Pavilion Poetry Event in Brooklyn for many years. Their second anthology “The Venetian Hour . . . Dinner with the Muse Vol. II is already out. Her work has also appeared in several anthologies and NYC based websites such as First Literary Review-East, Brooklyn Borough’s President Website (Poetic Brooklynites) and others.




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