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  • Home
  • Poetry
    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Three Poems from “The Bastard and the Bishop” – Gerald Fleming

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

    Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

    Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

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    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    Let the Rivers Speak! – Lucia Cupertino and the Poetry of the Global Souths, by  Pina Piccolo

    Fanta Blackcurrant – Makena Onjerika

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    Lino-printing fairy tales over Constitutions- The artwork of Mihaela Šuman

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    Architectures of Delusion –  Steve Salaita

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    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

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  • Out of bounds
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    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
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    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

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    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

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    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

  • News
    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

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    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

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Home Poetry

Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

From the unpublished manuscript, Transit of Mercury. Artwork by Enrica Luceri and Francesca Brà.

April 26, 2022
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 10
Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes
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ASH WEDNESDAY

 

All of us marked, visibly or not, going on about

our business as the night’s full moon in eclipse,

called the blood moon, now fades to gray,

 

as do the rest of us to corners and shadows,

but in a fine painting by Vuillard—saw it live

today!—that grand troubadour of mysteries

 

lurking in the everyday—painted his mother

as she opens a yellow curtain, exposing

a flowered shade, which she’s about to draw back,

 

leaving us to wonder, what’s next. His mother,

that grand seamstress, connoisseur of pattern

and fabric, she has her place in time.

 

Piano teacher four doors down getting nasty

about Bruce, our postman—our own connoisseur

of the hours and their patterns—

 

for yakking on his phone, while hauling

her stuff up her steps, she threatens to turn

that sucker in, our whole block

 

in an uproar to shut her up, shut her down. I’ve

never been anything but a spectator,

Vuillard wrote. Today, a smudge of ashes

 

on the brow, palm fronds next, the lilies

will come soon. Always another curtain

to draw open.

 

 

 

EARLY EDUCATION

 

Dear ladies, gents, won’t make it

to your 50th. One day, dear little thugs of long ago,

I arrived in polished boots, fringed shirt

with silver snaps—gift from Ma—and was late,

Dad’s pickup raced us from farm

to town, and I stood before you all—

 

with your circle pins, pastel flats, your

slicked-back boy hair, penny loafers—

snickering beneath the yellow-toothed grin

of your homeroom goon, Mrs.

Something—who cares! She got Dad

to remove me! Me—bereft of a skirt!

 

Pa heads us to the track, the late set

galloping out, jogging back. Trainers mumble,

pony girls rosy, hot-walkers, racing forms rattle,

Dad pleased the colt worked the six in twelve

and change, galloped out kindly,

whole backstretch alive

 

with glazed donuts, cocoa, enough smart talk

to call back, all down the years. World’s had

its way, good times outweigh the rest.

 

 

 

 

SENSE OF SMELL

 

What you pull toward you from near or afar,

wafting they call it, summoning the air

laden with aroma to build another world

for the moment, for what moments

we have left

 

There’s a hunger for scent that starts high up,

behind the nose, where you first take in,

and then sort of behind the eyes

where the top notes of a good perfume

burst wide open with the bright urgency

of citrus and…a cry of immediate delight

 

later opening out to that space between

the ears where the heart notes first inscribe

their beauty. Rose and jasmine, boronia

and wild orange, spreading lush beauty

to the back of the throat, all the way

through the chest, filling you with

exotic fragrance. As you

 

absorb that warmth, the base notes

stake their claim—frankincense, ambergris

and musk, the chords sound and resound

down as they bloom through the body,

castoreum, choya, and myrrh

 

flowering the moments

between the spaces, binding the melody,

hushing the chorus, softening the harmonics

resounding, flowing up with warmth—

all these voices,

 

and the gift of smell, which is to take all this in,

pull together in the body, in the spirit,

as a conductor, this multitude of voices,

invite them to linger and flourish

for their brief, eternal moment.

 

 

 

A MOON ROCK OF YOUR OWN

 

Here’s a fresh moon rock for sale

it’s original, someone worked hard

to obtain it and will freely provide,

its papers, its pedigree—if you will—

as well as a brief, but striking video.

I can get it for you cheap and easy,

plus, I’ve got feathers from the wing

of an angel, tulip bulbs from the Garden

of Eden, I have the only thought plucked

from the brow, below the auburn tresses,

from within the alabaster skin of the only

Virgin Mary. I can post it on eBay, I can

e-mail you, Facebook you, can like you,

tweet you, can text you, so tell me what

you want, I will deliver, I always do, even

precious sunbeams, either distilled

or fermented, in exquisite jars. I’ll sell you

anything, I’ve got joy for sale, so much joy.

 

 

 

 

LOOKING BACK

 

Sometimes it’s good to leave home if only

to remember who made you, where you’re from,

how you carry the scent of geranium and saddle soap,

hoof trimmings and mock orange—unbidden—as you slide

through another country, with its noises and flavors,

its precision about gesture, what pasta tonight,

what subjunctive right now—essential encounters—

 

all astonishing, until missing my own people

avalanches down with a roar, grief burning to sorrow,

the days carry on, if you call it that, what remains—

sharp tang of small moments—how delicately she

eased her old dog out the door, how he wiped his face,

stomping snow from his shoes, out of hundreds

of unknowable people, lazily streaming all this Sunday

through Bologna’s huge piazza, it’s you we miss.

 

 

Helen Wickes is the author of four books of poetry: In Search of Landscape, Sixteen Rivers Press, 2007; Moon over Zabriskie and Dowser’s Apprentice, both from Glass Lyre Press, 2014; World as You Left It, Sixteen Rivers Press, 2015. All six poems published in this article are from an unpublished manuscript titled “Transit of Mercury”. She grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, has lived in Oakland, California for many years, and used to work as a psychotherapist.  She is a member of Sixteen Rivers Press, which has recently released the anthology America, I Call Your Name: Poems of Resistance and Resilience.

 

 

Tags: Helen Wickesmemorymoon rockspaintingPoetrysense of smellTransit of Mercury

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