Irene Koronas has two full length books, Self Portrait Drawn From Many, Ibbetson Street Press, 2007, Pentakomo Cyprus, Cervena Barva Press’ 2009. Her most recent chapbooks, Zero Boundaries, Cervena Barva Press, 2008 and Emily Dickinson, Propaganda Press, 2010. Her most recent book, Turtle Grass, Muddy River Books 2014.
Her poetry has appeared in Clarion 13-14, Lummox, Free Verse, Posey, Presa:S:Press, Counterexample Poetics and on-line zines, Divine Dirt, Spreadhead, Index poetry, Unblog, Lynx, Pop Art, Right Hand Pointing. Anthologies: Bagel Bards Vol. 1-9.
Irene Koronas is Poetry Editor at Wilderness House Literary Review.
the frail burnt lavender offerings
placed without knowing I am no different from the hoards
racing though forest. raffia bunches we tie each other-up
we laugh until our spit hardens and aphrodite flies
where crocus under comquat tree
where the pine box we sit around lamenting-
we sing blue bell songs
when spring moss and ivy vines climb
the chapel wall. I remember
and take glory in remembrance
when fern twines our fence
summer softens winter
when all around me old ones love
as they were once upon a time
our apartment over the grocery store,
butcher shop, tailor shop, barber shop,
democritus cut my hair, like aphrodite, he said
my curls will add to the soil and my shoulders form
even though i’d never been to the forest,
those shop owners knew my name
and our parents confess wholly
as holy as if holy pulls gold from poverty
we knew each beginning our relatives homed.
when phones came into our homes, when small
juicy tomato and cucumber. we had everything.
almost everything at our fingertips. beckoning.
some grew goodly, some grew badly
but then we knew who was who
and why destruction seem to bend the ground
and almost everyone grew from seeds, petunias
we sit until sprouts glisten with morning
the tailor asking me the difference between
brown and navy-blue spools of thread.
color blindness brought us together
while father hammered leather onto shoes.
one for another. their laughter calls us home
afraid melancholy will slap my face
and snapdragons will bite my fingers
and roses bloom in-spite of the forest
growing between the trees
stormy saturday
sky rivers the sidewalk
I wade through the horizon
my water body the swish coming
from reflections
we meet as if planted under sea
when I say I speak with the dead
it’s because i’m already dreaming
or is it because the dead re-commune
for laughter sake. spittle or drool. whichever.
it seems heaven is where we swim back
tea and lime
we fling our thorns at each other
a quiet awkward freckled pain
scents the house, escapes into full ardor
the storm slams our hollow doors
sea pebbles knock our senses
we circle out, onto unpaved roads
uncut grass on slope. the cresting waves
the foam weeds cut our dare. we pick olive leaf
and milk thistle warms our reason
like boiled water, tea and lime.
our bitter glimpse evaporates
we undress
Poetry in this post: © Irene Koronas
Published with the permission of Irene Koronas