February 2025
Irene Mitchell
irene811.m@gmail.com
Bio Note: My latest collection, An Overdose of Meditation was published in 2024 by Dos Madres Press. I am the author of eight other collections including My Report from the Uwharries (Dos Madres Press, 2022) and Irene Mitchell: Selected Poems (Future Cycle Press, 2021). Formerly poetry editor of Hudson River Art Magazine in New York, I am known for my collaborations with visual artists and composers. I was a recent Associate Artist in Residence at the Atlantic Center for the Arts.


The Child at Bedtime

Desperately wanting to hear
what they were saying
downstairs, I drove myself mad
as the clock ticked without mercy
in the hallway, imputing sleeplessness
to a worry about time, which it was not,
but only an overriding feeling 
of non-inclusion, which would, by its nature, prove
that I was a shunned soul in need of protection
from the wild boar of childlike innocence
about the unknowable conversations taking place at the table
downstairs, 
the voices of those allowed to sit there while I
lay in bed, longing to hear what they were saying,
for I had to know each word or else
be cheated of a wonder, the specifics
of which I was not privy
and that prompted me to rise and look
out the window at the rain
(and impending snow) which would blanket my fears
so that I would have to call upon
my arsenal of reserves to get through the midnight hour.

Even later, on my twelfth
birthday, I could not bear the thought that I was missing
even one moment of (probably) inconsequential banter,
for how was I to know whether or not a narrative
of sudden import might be escaping
my ears, preventing me from building in my imagination
any nuances that might lead me on
to a greater story than the one I was now living.

In Truth

The star plunged
toward a rack of trees
but as this trick was unbelievable
no one acknowledged it
although it was true as day.
It is hard to tolerate skepticism
when to simply adjust the blinders
is to verify.

That star did go down
like a swimmer to a plunge pool,
the very act adored for its courage.
Je t’adore, plummeting star,
although, in truth, your fickle glow is nothing 
less than my heart
trading in little satisfactions.

Fear of the Impending Journey

It is too late to rummage
through my imagination
for a theory
since much has already been forgotten, a lost 
battalion of data and conclusions.

All that way traveled, all those stories blended 
with no end to the pickle.
Can anyone expect to thrive, after all,
on imagination alone?

He waved but would not have been able 
to see me through the darkened
window, had I waved back.

I lost faith
somewhere between river and highway,
thinking about the boy who, caught sniffing
aftershave, wondered if oneness
ever made a difference.

The next station-stop announced is Croton-Harmon,
a nice ring to it. 
There are swans and herons swimming in the rivulets
between Rhinebeck and Hudson, a quick 
reminder of the bounding main.

There are voices coming from the seats behind.
They are Czech, Polish , or Ukrainian, loud, non-stop.
Oh, please shut-up, your agitation
is contagious.
Are you anxious about your sons
lost in the war?

©2025 Irene Mitchell
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