May 2016
Laurie Byro
philbop@warwick.net
philbop@warwick.net
In 1985, while pursuing a business degree, I unhappily landed in a creative writing class and announced to the group that I thought Walt Whitman was a chain of schools throughout the United States. To my astonishment, I had found my pacing, abandoned prose, and started a poetry circle that has been meeting for 16 years. I recently published a full length book, “Luna.” through Aldrich Press and “Gertrude Stein’s Salon and Other Legends” through Blue Horse Press, thanks to Tobi and Jeff Alfier. I am the Poet in Residence at the West Milford Township Library and despite it all, love New Jersey, and have lived here almost 60 years.
Godiva’s Horse
My God, he was a devil of a man to make
my lady weep into my head before she rode
with the heaviness of a sparrow, broken
winged, broken-hearted, her eyes furtively
cast down murmuring stories to me as
she passed through the shuttered town.
Only I know her secret. I am a horse,
no opinion, they gelded me for less, neither
“Nay” or “Yea” to tax. There is not a man alive
who knows that before her regal ride,
there were tears. Ghosts become alive
when they are haunted by bickering.
She straddles me, her waves of tears, her diaphanous
white shift, the seeping blue shells that she sets
on the garden stones to tempt glass-eyed birds
to mate. She is planting a poison garden, sowing
wolfsbane and nightshade to settle to the mulch.
I am nothing to her but a strong neck, a strong back.
She is not the first woman to weep, not
the first woman to carry the ocean inside her.
-from Luna, Aldrich press
Godiva’s Horse
My God, he was a devil of a man to make
my lady weep into my head before she rode
with the heaviness of a sparrow, broken
winged, broken-hearted, her eyes furtively
cast down murmuring stories to me as
she passed through the shuttered town.
Only I know her secret. I am a horse,
no opinion, they gelded me for less, neither
“Nay” or “Yea” to tax. There is not a man alive
who knows that before her regal ride,
there were tears. Ghosts become alive
when they are haunted by bickering.
She straddles me, her waves of tears, her diaphanous
white shift, the seeping blue shells that she sets
on the garden stones to tempt glass-eyed birds
to mate. She is planting a poison garden, sowing
wolfsbane and nightshade to settle to the mulch.
I am nothing to her but a strong neck, a strong back.
She is not the first woman to weep, not
the first woman to carry the ocean inside her.
-from Luna, Aldrich press
©2016 Laurie Byro