Does she remember, 
or ask her of the first winter you were home?

There were tangerines in the front porch, 
and the wind stayed as cold as a writer on the last page of his draft. 

Polka merry dots of Christmas on her face and the fruit bowls at her place, starred with blood oranges.

I remember them as hard to peel. 
How to peel the stories off a man or contain them, his depths, and grooves. 

Say, a man never grows out of home, its stories, or land. 
Men are twins to their land. 

There were men in the sea during the first winter you were at her home,
and they haven't left for their homes,
even now as this is being read. 

True. Who is a poet?
The poet is a memory, a wooden plank,
some of them held onto in the sea under that winter sun. 

My Turn

Elizabeth Sullivan
August 20, 2012

So slow – this turn of mine.
And yet I wait in patience,
with no desire to have it come.
Too dear, this path I walk today –
too fresh the air that cools my face.

I seem to hold and flip a braided rope,
as others skip,
and wonder who it is that holds the other end…
the one who calls our names.
I know them all, these friends who come to play.
They take their cues - then fall away.

It comes sneaking up – my turn.
Almost unnoticed in
the act of re-filling of my daily pillbox –
the replacing of worn out underwear –
the mending of the roof –
the paying of last year’s taxes – 
the increasing need of rest.

Like an hourglass, 
whose trickling sands measure the passage of time,
I feel the granules flowing past
(somehow less slowly now)
Towards a turn for me.

Elizabeth Sullivan
August 20, 2012


​

.




Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon,
Time is breaking my heart.
As the morning sun finally falls to moon,
Time just rips me apart.
For he simply wants to move 
with the ticking of the clock.
It’s as if he needs to prove 
that he certainly cannot
possibly stop for me!
Though I plead for him to stay - 
linger here a little while - 
he replies it’s not his way -
says it’s really not his style 
and that he must be free!
Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon, Time is breaking my heart.
Give me a day!
Give me an hour!
Give me a moment more!
There’s much to do!
So little spoken!
Still he runs through that door!
Like an honored guest, slipping away too soon, Time is breaking my heart.

Elizabeth Sullivan
April 17, 2013




.





IF THERE IS ONE

Walking from my piano, I say what I always say when I’ve finished a song:
“Best song I’ve ever written!”
But each time I want to do it better when I write my next song…if there is one.
I reason that with the writing of every song, I will learn something to help me find a better lyric, or hear a fresher harmony.
Laying down my pen, I say what I always say when I’ve finished a poem:
“Best poem I’ve ever written!”
But each time I want to do it better when I write my next poem…if there is one.
I hope that with the writing of every poem, I will learn something about searching for deeper concepts or conjuring words that best express the thoughts.
I need to feel that I’m getting better. I must assume that what I’m struggling to create will be improved over my last effort, and that the trying, the failing, the accepting or discarding, will help me accomplish my goal. I desperately want to be more prepared for the coming chance…if there is one.

Elizabeth Fowler Sullivan
September 18, 2014

PARACHUTE

When I was in my rodent hole gnawing away at the scent of death and reading stories about the characters in apartment buildings to men with gold teeth, he pulled me away.  Your last strawberry basil martini, your last shot of scotch, and your last cigarette.  My family already mourned my office wear, never got used to me in tatters.  The last time your head will spin on the swing at the bar telling a strange man you will accompany him all the way to Jackson Heights.  He took me to the playground so we could relive our childhoods and I could tell him what went wrong.   The last pair of rainbow sneakers that will grow dirty in the mud as you dance.   




THIRD BASE 

The strike of the bat against the ball.
It floats through the air like hope.
Her long hair carries her through
the fields like wings.  Her heart 
is rushed with blood.  It warms 
her chest.  The temperature of tears.
He never waited for her.  
He was fine in his mother’s house,
her knock on his bedroom door in the mornings
and spaghetti on his plate in the evenings.
He was happy to be living near Yankee 
Stadium.  At least he could feel the cheer
of the crowd in his body.  Each voice
prickled in his chest, but then he couldn’t 
tell the difference between it and his 
anxiety.  One day he would make it to 
the major leagues.  One day he would sing
“one hand in my pocket and the other
with nothing to hide.”      




BACKYARD 

Her admires 
her garden,
tomatoes 
that she holds,
paperweights 
that can bleed 
and dill 
that floats 
in the borsch 
like feathers.

It reminded him of the feather 
that she arranged in his hat.  
She was always smoothing over 
everyone else’s wrinkles.
Clipping the sheets on the line,
she walks through them like theater 
curtains.  Without realizing it,
she takes a bow, trying to avoid
the laundered cloth against her back.    




FORTRESS

My feet slip between cobblestones.
A narrow bridge suspended 
over emptiness leads
to my destination.  A ladder
stretches towards the top.  
I look out from between the stones
at the vast land.  Seemingly 
endless mountains are 
in the distance.  My head
is at their heights.  My thoughts
run over their peaks.  It is all 
spinning.  Once I was at the show,
concentrating on the elegy.  My 
bag was getting heavy, so that I 
couldn’t hold it anymore, threw
my coins to the floor.  I walked 
out and disappeared.  My body
was my best kept secret.     




SWALLOW 

I find the pills with the keys
at the bottom of my purse.
Now I can’t remember 
the way to your apartment,
looking up at windows 
for the red geranium.  I once found
myself at the foot of your bed, 
a puppy.  I can’t find the pills.
It is in the folds.  The roughness
of your skin, like the 
sand dollar I found on the beach
when we were counting stars.
You convinced me I needed
to get better.  I drink down the pills
with wine.  I drink down the wine with 
the pills.  The pet store is open 
in your neighborhood.  The light glows
neon, the goldfish glows
in the plastic bag.  
It is in lieu of flowers.  I see a stranger’s 
hands and imagine your acceptance.  
It will go in the bowl or vase.  We will tempt
it with the pills, floating at the top.  
You once found me 
in the hospital during visiting hours,
still in the paper gown.
Our fingers became sticky with chicken 
wings on cafeteria tables.  A woman asked 
you for a match.  You shook your head.
The pills came in little paper cups.  Like me,
you are skilled at sitting in waiting rooms. 
You have learned to turn the magazine pages
at just the right pace until you can enter 
to get the prescription, your name in the doctor’s 
handwriting shocking, 
like finding yourself famous.       

Jackie Robinson Poetry Day is my own personal love letter to Harlem.

Now even with its boundaries and definitions being encroached upon by the mere movement of time, gentrification, or globalization,  I ached in my soul to send something so endearing that she might happen to hark back. Harlem. As lovelorn and foolish as this premise may sound, I long to continue singing her sweet odes, I still see the haunting ghosts of a deep and illustrious history of Jazz and Poetry, of social movements, revolutions brewing, all churning such delicious moments of solidarity within the confines of her majestic and somewhat overlooked architecture, I wanted to create a link to the past, a roadway to the future to help secure Harlem’s history in the hearts of its people.

Jackie Robinson was not only a man who broke down certain known social conventions, but gave hope to throngs of people, that their voices could be heard in a time when all they knew was silence. As American as the relationship between Poetry and Baseball, Jackie enabled a light to come through the darkness amidst desperate times that required a righteous resound, a truthful re-address of what it was to be American, of the rights for all to participate, and with a bit of courage even knock it straight out of the park.

Jackie Robinson Bandshell Theatre in Jackie Robinson Park in Central Harlem is the preeminent precipice  to launch such a reverberating band of voices from all over to unite in this “dome” of sound, to speak truth to power with its resounding acoustic echo and beautiful modern day castle aspire.

In this our second year, we aimed to do exactly that and through the support and help of Poet’s and Writers, Gregg Dotoli, Max Kurganskyy, and the good people of our community, we came through on September 16th 2017 to gather and share our stories, our poetry, and songs to the streets of Harlem, which turned out an electrifying success.
​
Poet and Social Activist Bob McNeil of QBR Books: The Black Book Review, once more took the reigns of hosting, and with brilliant effect his thorough and deliberate baritone could be heard from Avenues over as he brought together the audience, the performers, readers, and passerby that unknowingly attended the event. He was just the man to uniquely herald forth such a grand undertaking, and was truly deft in hand at accomplishing the defining of a profound memory in the hearts of everyone who made it out.

And what a great show of force did we have in spades! Performers this year included, Jana Astanov, James Browning Kepple, Eartha Watts Hicks,  Marc W. Polite, Gregg Dotoli, Olena Jennings, Robert Kramer, Bob McNeil, and the 2016 winner of the Jackie Robinson Poetry Day Award, Carla Cherry. Inspired verses came from all!     
​      
The Open Mic performers featured this year were Sherese Francis, Makeba Amira, Taneeka L. Wilder, Tanya Robinson, M.A. Dennis, and Ronald Bullins. Edgar Alan was on the guitar, rocking the upside down fendercaster, creating music for the audience as well. The show was broadcast worldwide via Facebook live stream, so those who were not present could hear all the delectable indigenous poetry of Harlem.

As the show drew to a close, Bob brought each remaining performer up to create a genuine and original piece of spoken word poetry by knitting together each person’s one line based upon the last letter of the person before them. The first poet would on the spot come up with a line, and then the last letter of that line would be the first letter of the next poet’s improvised line, to create a flowing continuous and immediate new poem straight from the minds of the 15+ performers on stage.

The Excited Winner of this year’s Gregg Dotoli Poetry Prize was local blogger and writer, Marc Polite who performed a moving rendition of his winning poem, “Poetic Ruminations of Mr. Born Nice.”

For all of the kids who attended (aged 2-92!) They were invited to participate in the Harlem Renaissance Chapbook Creation Station, sponsored by Underground Books. Children had an opportunity to learn how to make their own Poetry Chapbooks by selecting works from Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Gwendolyn Brooks, Jean Toomer, Countee Cullen, Federico Garcia Lorca, and many more! A good amount of our younger members of the community walked home with a memento of the event, some new found knowledge on book publishing, and their own personalized book of Harlem Renaissance Poetry.
​
We look forward to continue to broaden and strengthen the vision of this event, and to bring the community each year a festival of Poetry, Music, Thought, and Discourse, for everyone is encouraged to be a part of it. With the help of such fine organizations such as Poet’s and Writers, we welcome next September for all to come out for Jackie Robinson Poetry Day 2018  together and help relive Harlem’s literary past, and contribute to its bright new future! 

​​​​
​EVIDENCE
 
I don't understand love,
but since I am in love with you,
when you excel,
I share your accolades.
When you fail,
your failure belongs to me.
When you burst with joy,
my happiness overflows.
And when a tear burns your cheek,
I brush it away from mine.
 
For Jim
__

​CloudBurst (Hey Now)

Moon High
A great thunder crack
and dire rain burst
is rushing to earth
missed by half baked scientists
man the tool maker
manic technologists, bankers
and the innocent life we destroyed
hey now
a final torrent of natural that's-it from above 
place your ear to the sky listen
as the Indian tracked the railroad
with attention to iron tracks
hear the drops of acid rain
the thunder of extinct
the no turning back
force of destruction
we weren't alone
we had responsibility 
to Biota
but treated earth like a toilet
Cloudburst (Hey Now)

Summer Fruit

Textures and similes abound as we select summer fruit,
sniffing the aromas of the produce aisle as eagerly as spaniels,
squeezing the juicy red heft of tomato, solid and round,
velvety apricots, lemons like handfuls of sunshine,
and the pocked red hearts of strawberries.

Fruit shades seem truer than paint samples
and crayon colors, and harder to reproduce:
The red and green mottled skin of an apple,
pale, mealy crescents of banana.
their leathery skins like speckled snakes.

Downy green kiwis are stippled with seeds like blackheads.
the sweet golden moons of peaches and the sunset orbs
of nectarines mingle in the blue bowl, waiting to be consumed.
The sweetness of their scent is heady and rich, syrupy juice
dripping summery stickiness.

Oranges resemble miniature suns,
bright paper lanterns strung for a garden party.
Bruise-colored plums, bitten and bleeding,
fruit peels like citrus-scented leather, the crunch of grapeskins,
and spongy bowls of grapefruit halves with hearts of rosy pulp.

The great boulder of watermelon awaits its execution.
Its green beetle-shell is striped like malachite. Cleaved open,
it will reveal its damp center like a geode, studded darkly with seeds,
to be devoured by tongues streaked violet with blueberries,
their fingers bloodstained with berry juice, freshly-picked.




Potatoes

Potatoes tumble from burlap sacks,
heaped like speckled stones, laying
damp and cool in my hand, their heft
weighed in the paleness of my palm.

Ancient skin is scratched and scarred,
punctuated with moles and liver spots.
The peeler scrapes away the epidermis
of coarse brown paper, revealing gold,

like ore damply shaken from a miner’s pan.
The glint of wielded steel, deftly separating
the toadlike complexion from the prize within.
The brown rind peels away like curling ribbon,

exposing yellow flesh punctured by thumbprints.
The wet-grass scent of freshly-shaven potatoes
bobbing in a bowl like a children’s game, watery
submersibles left to float, like seals in a rookery.

The piled parings resemble rhinoceros hides:
The satisfaction of mounding vegetable peels
heaped like pine straw, the pile of potato skin
strewn like gift wrap on Christmas morning.

The methodical scrape of the peeler as it shreds
the brown tree-bark roughness like scaling fish.
Metaphors abound, similes curling into the air
above as the potatoes slowly fill the empty bowl.



Bitter Tea

The tea was bitter with betrayal.
Their knowing eyes met across the table,
among the sugar tongs and strawberries.
Blackflies lingered over the sugar cubes,
waved away by impatient hands.

The spoons rang against the teacups with
a chime like church bells. The ice clatters,
catching light like glaciers in a sepia sea,
melting fast under the steady eye of the sun.
The rising steam unfurls to meet the sky,

evaporating like a jet’s contrail overhead,
its warm scent drifting against perfumes.
Smiling over sandwiches, his wife stirs angrily,
Her jaw strained taut with furious hostility.
The teasing frisson of electricity leapt

between their mingled fingertips. Concealed
beneath the tablecloth, She tickled his ankles
with her painted toes, her sandals abandoned
in the grass. A cool green afternoon awash with
light, drifting tendrils of windblown hair and

laughter like wind chimes, bone china gleaming
against her vermillion fingertips. The strawberries
bleed against the porcelain. The world is green and
expectant. The leaves shiver in the breeze, throwing
shadows on stippled bark. The fresh-peach scent of

the bower sweet as the summer nectar of sweat-damp
sheets, a strand of hair stark against the pristine pillow.
Her legs are crossed decorously beneath the whiteness
of the napkin stained with the blown kiss of Her lipstick.
The sunlight illuminates her shape through the voile

of Her summer dress like stained glass, lit from within.
He lingers in the curve of Her neck, kissing its white
softness and murmuring in Her ear. They whisper into
the wind, stealing secret moments of breathless
conversation, fingerpainting their linked initials on the

sweating glasses and smearing them clean. The civility
of convention, the pouring of the steaming pot, leaves
unfurling. The crystal click of ice cubes clattering in
the topaz tea, sugar swirling like sand, the sharpness
of citrus filling the air. The long spoons catch the light,

winking at their duplicity. His wife worries the teabag with
a spoon, watching the water darken. The broken shards
of their relationship cannot be repaired with decorum
and cups of tea, pallid weapons against the calculating
sensuality of Her smile, as ripe and overt as summer fruit.



Fallen Apples

Ripe fruit dangles overhead like ornaments
tucked amidst shining leaves, greenly-scented,
dappling the lawn like an underwater sun.

Stumbling over the sharp stones of fallen apples
strewn among the tousled carpet of grass,
stems bitter with sap snapping under the weight

of their solid green heft, rustic baskets filling
with plops and thuds, and the mingled shades
of green: the green boulders of fallen apples

nestled in the roughness of damp grass;
lawn and leaves and piled fruit, crisply bitter
and running juice, bittersweet and glowing green.