December 2014
I am a poet and an artist. I am also the managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets, the journal of the U.S.1 Poets' Cooperative in New Jersey. I often write ekphrastic poems about my own work and that of others. I had a long career as a social worker helping homeless families, abused and foster children, and those with mental health issues and/or AIDS. My seventh book of poetry, Running Down Broken Cement (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2014) is a testament to all those who struggle daily against the odds. My eighth book, The Owl Prince (retold fairy tales), is coming out in 2015.
The Sleeping Gypsy (1897)
Henri Rousseau (1844 - 1910)
oil on canvas - 51" x 6' 7"
Museum of Modern Art; New York
The Sleeping Gypsy (1897)
Henri Rousseau (1844 - 1910)
oil on canvas - 51" x 6' 7"
Museum of Modern Art; New York
The melody of the lute lured the big cat. Fearless, the gypsy
offered him water from her cupped hands. Then, she bid the lion
stay, sang of unrequited love, hardship, the gypsy’s lot, how she’d
roamed thick forest, searing desert, cast out from kumpania, family.
At dusk, she read the lion’s paw and lied to him, as she does to all
not of her kind, whispered, if he stayed by her, she knew a way
from these barren dunes to a great savanna filled with creatures
to sate his appetite. He could kill a fatty ewe, she’d roast it, together
they would eat it to their liking. No misgivings about taking beast
as companion. Lion, she said, we’ll travel like the water. No foot-
prints, no dream of home, just life along the lungo drom, long road.
So it is with survival: one stands guard, one sleeps.
first published in U.S.1 Worksheets, 2008 and in the author’s book,
One Stands Guard, One Sleeps (Plain View Press, 2009)
___________________________________________________
Yevgeny's Redhead (2012)
Nancy Scott
Collage - 9×6 inches
Collection of the artist
Hers was a serious winter, acres bound in snow
and ice, stoked embers to keep them warm,
venison cured and hung in the cellar, fresh loaves,
and steaming tea to stave off hunger.
Still, long nights of sleepless wolves
broke down conversation, extinguished all desire.
Those months she never smiled.
He had liked that about her.
He dwelt in her auburn hair, set aflame by slivers
of sun, which disturbed the frozen windows.
When ice turned to rivulets, she filled a rucksack,
gathered a twill herringbone cloak around her.
Forgive me, she said, and disappeared
into the mud-splendor of early spring.
first published in U.S.1 Worksheets, 2014
©2014 Nancy Scott