Shelley Savren
(USA)
Words inside the Storm
for Talia
Rain and the day opens
like fingers in a soaked palm.
As we drive north to Santa Barbara,
trees weep along the road
and umbrellas dot the sidewalk.
Silence sits between us.
Just the drone of wipers, mufflers
and the steady tin can beat of rain.
At Earthling Bookstore you bolt
to the back. Picture books
and Berenstain Bears –
stuff you’re too old to read. But you love
to imagine Papa Bear lost
in the rain asking pebbles for the way.
Stones carry secrets you once
told me, opening your fist.
There Has Always Been A Song
for Talia
Kids swarm the street like a garden of bees
as the ice cream man makes music
down the block. Sun sweats
every forehead, every little lip.
I watch as you drip red
onto the grass, your chin.
Even your hair wears sticky juice.
Fifteen years and you drive away
with a CD blasting, suitcase full
of monologues and a friend’s old guitar.
A punk-hair boy with an earring
and black nails will teach you how to strum.
You call from the dorm.
Three drunk roommates sing
in the background and offer you a bottle,
but you’d rather slurp a popsicle
than beer. Tonight you wrote a song.
That’s why you called.
There has always been a song.
Photo by Rollie Kenna
Anne Sexton, in her 30’s
leans back on her cloth-covered chair
with its plaid, curtained trim
and props her feet over her desk
against blue wallpaper.
She wears loose-fitting dark slacks,
a button-down white shirt, long-sleeves
cuffed up, and flats, probably without Peds.
Her dark hair is styled for the 50’s,
red lipstick, thin brows.
It’s morning and sheets of light
cover the corner of the floor.
She hasn’t begun her daily writing ritual
though everything is ready:
notebooks stacked beneath her desk,
piles on the fold-up table
next to the bookshelf. Typewriter,
box of bare paper.
She’s taking a moment to be with Rollie,
looks to her left, into the camera,
not smiling yet, not ready for the shot.
It is 1961. She’s just starting
to get noticed. Publications, but
no Pulitzer yet. Just beginning
to risk writing about stuff that will shame
the press. Women’s stuff,
like abortion and masturbation.
The camera begins, as a bit of fear catches
in the corner of her mouth.
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BIO
Shelley Savren’s poetry books are The Common Fire (Red Hen Press 2004) and The Wild Shine of Oranges (Tebot Bach Press 2013). She holds an M.F.A. from Antioch University Los Angeles and is widely published in literary magazines. Her awards include: nine California Arts Council Artist in Residence grants, three National Endowment for the Arts regional grants, five artist fellowships from the City of Ventura, first place in the 1994 John David Johnson Memorial Poetry Award and a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is an English Professor Emeritus at Oxnard College and conducts workshops through California Poets in the Schools.