–for Goran Simic
I dropped into sleep while reading a book of poems
by the Bosnian friend I write for here. They’re brilliant,
full of red flowers and graves and wrenching accounts
of his homeland during the 90s. They lend some…
I found this suitcase slumped in a dark attic corner
like a drunk awash in self- pity. I was Me once.
There’s a burn mark beside one latch. I tell myself,
with a bit of wonder, Me used to smoke in those days.
Indeed– and drink.…
https://sydneylea.net/wp-content/uploads/sydneylea.png00webmasterhttps://sydneylea.net/wp-content/uploads/sydneylea.pngwebmaster2020-05-31 21:45:152020-05-31 21:45:15Old Leather Suitcase and Me: A Fable
The following essay is from my forthcoming collection, The Music of What Happens, a compendium of newspaper articles I wrote as Vermont Poet Laureat (2011-2015):
People have often asked me, of course, why I chose poetry as my principal vocation.…
Fats and Little Richard would come to our rescue,
but before they did I ached for Patti Page,
“The Singin’ Rage,” as the radio deejays dubbed her.
I remember loving “How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?”
And “Mockingbird Hill”–…
Hank Nicci worked as the gas pump man
at Greville’s Sunoco all that summer.
He had a heart like a Valentine,
but softball-sized, tattooed on a shoulder.
It said Mom. What else would it say in those times?
His bleach-blond girlfriend…
...the only sensible impression left is, "I am nothing!"
Farmwives conjure elaborate quilts.
Woodworkers busy themselves at their stations.
No shortage at all of craftspeople here,
but however deft these artisans,…