Four Poems by WINK Contributors
Individual names below each poem
Send Me Away
Send me away, he said. Send me away
where the hills are out of names.
Send me to that pasture where all the
noble sons of Troy are by their immortal
fathers lain. Send me further, even,
than the dreams of Elysium, he said.
Send me like a feather, like a bird that
was maimed but now restored to flight.
Send me away like a letter in a bottle,
like lightning flashing for a moment.
Send me away like a curtain of rain
is sent to the hills, over elsewhere.
Send me beyond yellow brick roads,
beyond rainbows and primrose sunsets;
and put me to sleep where I can rest.
Send me far beyond your plains, cities;
your people, your passion; and let me
know where my bones can remain,
their memories never to be unburied.
Send me away, as if it’s only nothing
you’re sending from your watch;
as if I’m only time sent from eternity’s
long balled lament of earth and man.
Send me away—oh, send me away—
where the ballgame’s forever over;
and let this be the last time I’ve asked it.
Don’t even bury me, but turn me to ashes;
then send me to wherever there isn’t this.
—Galen Cunningham
Circus Lion Tamer
Great Lionel was a lion tamer, intrepid, bold and true
Star of the circus, daredevil of sawdust ring
Bravery second to none, hero who knew no fear.
Introduced by the ringmaster stepped into the ring
Wearing red satin tights, purple vest, and black boots
Cracking his whip with pistol on hip, haughty and proud
Fearlessly enters the lions cage with contemptuous grin
Confronting three elderly lions and bad-tempered lioness.
Audience cheer and Great Lionel bows and waves,
Cracking whip three lions obey leaping onto barrels
Quiet and still, ready to perform and follow his commands.
But lioness refuses, sullen and hungry, wanting her dinner
She ate Great Lionel leaving whip and black leather boots.
—Colin Ian Jeffery
Image by DreamStudio
Valentines Never Sent
For Amy Druding
1
Branches of pines and hemlocks are dizzy
with cold stars—
Falling, I can’t catch one to wish upon,
wonder where the dead have gone.
2
A red bird bleeds into the snow with its chambers
of regrets. It cocks his head as if to remind me—
you are in flight, each breath that slips away
brings you closer to aqua blue skies, into eyes of the vanquished.
3
You summon a tangled blue sky to cast your line into.
Clouds form a wink, a jaunty mouth of teeth.
Fish are like Gods you’d tell me. Inscrutable, hiding out—
Nit so obvious, but there beneath the surface, like our hunger.
4
Your eyelids flutter and I watch you turn into a wise man,
A buddha talking to spirits, a priest hearing a last confession.
I confess I should have sent you more valentines.
I confess the space between us will only fill with love.
—Laurie Byro
Emily Dickinson Hated Submitting
Emily Dickinson hated submitting. It was demeaning, ill-fitting.
But she loved writing, it was personally fulfilling
and exciting, so by her sixties she had
unpublished poems filling several rooms. It was
time to be published and publicly nourished.
But it was hell--poetry didn’t sell.
She had to submit to publishers and wait up to a year
to hear. Dividing her work, she created thirty-nine
separate submissions, it took a long time. After a
year, twelve publishers had disappeared. The rest
sent rejection emails with no details. She never knew
how many of her poems were actually read; no one
said. Did any roam beyond the first poem?
Emily Dickinson hated submitting. It was demeaning, ill-fitting.
Emily put together a large anthology of her writing and,
feeling it exciting, published it herself, hoping for
emotional wealth. Then, in a stroke of luck it's said,
she broke her leg. A TV station’s feature on the recluse
author with the broken leg was a feel-good story that
went viral, taking viewers up a peg and wanting for her
glory. The publicity sent sales of her book soaring
beyond her hopes--after six months, over four million
copies were sold and it was hardly bold to say she had
written the largest-selling volume of poetry in the
century, people were that smitten.
Soon, unpublished writers sent her their work, asking
for advice or help or some kind of perk. It took a year
for her to get to a manuscript in the pile, took a long
while, and then she rarely read more than the first
page before sending a standard note, with nothing
from her to quote.
Emily Dickinson hated submitting. It was demeaning, ill-fitting.
—Victor Schwartzman