New Poetry from Anne Witty
Sho-do The Way of Calligraphy
The testing of pens must be my first work today—which ones flow
with ink, which nibs leave only faint scratches, small hints on paper,
which wait to be cleaned since the last words jammed in dried-up channels.
Once words flooded in, an unruly stream— my pens now again
ready to channel the imminent spate, and meantime writing
practice is writing, practice hand-‐writing, practice. Is writing.
Mirror Blues
In morning’s harsh light, spring unveils a stranger’s face. Winter’s not worn well on me; a slow erosion of private cares runs off the edges of my mouth. Moments of happiness stand etched in rays beside my brows, petroglyphic laughter now forgotten.
Failed concentration furrows my forehead. I never noticed that vertical crease before, nor did I ever know what troubled really means until nervous chewing chapped and blurred my lips, twisting even at rest.
Those are the blues under my eyes.
The Dragon’s Mouth, Yellowstone
We hike to where the heart of earth spews forth its heat, where colored lichen clings to boiled spots where nothing else grows. A bone, a horn, a skull lie crumbling, half-swallowed by the molten mud. from the edge, we listen spellbound to Dragon’s rage bubbling on tongues of water lashing up from hidden caverns. and when the Dragon laughs, we jump at its deep-throated chuckle.
We peer through the sulfurous fumes to witness this unpretty geology, and here beside this stinking place, as is our habit, we wave at the camera— surprised, once home, to see our visit verified in photographs untarnished by the whiff of brimstone, our smiles unshadowed by this glimpse of fire, the viscous pulse of life and death beneath our feet.
Anne Witty lives and writes in mid-coast Maine, where she recently completed an MFA in poetry. She works and plays as a museum curator, maritime historian, poet, musician, organic gardener, and sailor of vintage wooden boats.