Five Poems by Martina Reisz Newberry

 

 

How the Streets Cough and Sing

 

This city!

An open mouth–no–

a chorus of open mouths.

The traffic’s lymph system

runs 24 hours.

It clots in places,

then reopens

to clot again down the line.

Breath in, breathe out

sings the chorus to “Sorry/Grateful.”*

Clench your fists.

Remember your weapons–

carry them where they can be seen

so that all will be warned.

 

This city!

Jacaranda trees on every other block,

Star Jasmine growing through

Scientology’s great wall.

The chorus sings,

Clear your senses and breathe in,

breathe out  gratitude

that you smell sweet Jasmine

over other, less pleasurable smells.

 

This city! 

Fast,

smart,

metallic,

not eternal

but something like it.

 

Very late at night, in bed–or very early–

this city laughs and weeps,

snorts and plays charades

in the shadows,

breathes in and out

with accompanying sirens.

Sleep well, it says,

you know there is enough here for all of us.

 

*Song from the musical comedy “Company,” by Stephen Sondheim,. Derek A. Bermel & Charles Braswell, 1993

Dreams I Want To Have

 

A two-story house that resembles a wedding cake from the outside

Friends the size of jelly beans who adore me–especially my large feet

Twilights with excessively short lives

Mafia/ Cosa Nostra, crowded into limousines–overcoats brushing against each other

An ineluctable dessert, the taste of which lasts until after I wake up

A trail through trees leading to a mossy place lit by a bright moon

Dark water filled with stars, laughter and torches and seafood for all

A kindly ghost who will reconstruct my future

Elves and Michael the Archangel dancing on the lawn outside my door

A small house in Scotland with Mountain Avens and Corn Marigold growing around it

Tiny dun horses who will lie in my lap, snores sounding  like Anahata Healing Flutes, music above and below me

A bed drowning in pillows–a blue quilt underneath them

A telegram from a reliable source to tell me that I will never die

Amen

 

The Effect Of Overcast Quiet On Sadie’s Mood

 

Ah! Sadie, I said.

You are my soul sister in alienation

so I thought I’d close your curtains

and turn on all the lights for you.

We both know what that mousy grey light

can do to a person. It can kill someone, Sadie.

Did you know that?

 

Grey sky makes this city look dishonoured,

disdainful, lost in loneliness.

That’s the price for living here: when it’s barely lit,

Los Angeles seems to be in her death throes

and, I tell you, Sadie, it scares me.

 

Yeah, she said. Both things–grey skies and twilight–

look like they’ve OD’d on chloral hydrate,

they reek of impermanence and indifference.

You’re right to close my drapes. I’d sleep

through dark days, but the muted light

invades my eyes. I see sad shapes and lost time

beneath my eyelids.

 

Unsafe, don’t you think–that light that warms no one?

If you could take a foam mat and a sleeping bag

and stay in a church (with stained glass windows and incense)

and lie down in a pew toward the middle, you might be OK,

able to avoid the rawness of gray, the foil air and solid sky.

The crucified face above the altar might protect you.

 

I won’t sleep in a place I don’t attend regularly, said Sadie.

It seems an unscrupulous thing to do. I’m afraid that the angels

will not recognize me; they will make inquiries,

will scratch my  face and arms.

Angels can be hard on us mortals. You have to watch angels

every bit as closely as you do demons. They are moody.

 

Well, I said, that explains it. It must be eternally overcast in heaven.

That will really fuck with your mood.

 

Sadie made a smacking sound with her lips.  Got anything good to eat

at your place? she asked. Do you have fizzy fruit juice and coffee?

Do you have wine and fancy chocolates or lemon meringue pie?

 

Let’s go and I’ll see what I can do, I said.  We’ll open the curtains

and the window and spit fire into the air to make it remember

when it was beautiful.

Immelmann Maneuver

 

When I closed the window last night,

I saw my face–pale and creased.

I saw my face pleated with confusion,

desperate gentleness,

fierce hopefulness,

a short distance from my features

to the ever-flaming city

on the other side of the window.

I thought At least I am whole.

 

Outside the window,

a plane executed half a loop upwards

then a half roll to reverse its direction.

I am whole, I thought.

I was made so by the earth tones

of my lover’s gaze–

warm and luscious

DREAM/WIND

 

This morning I woke from a dream of

watching a soiled wind scatter bits of

paper and dry weeds around my house.

I didn’t want to see this, you know,

but dreams have a way of governing

themselves. In this dream, I watched for a

letting up, a drop in wind strength that

would allow me to walk through it–brave,

 

unsullied–even better, untouched. 

I wanted an accomplice to watch

with me, one to say 1-2-3 GO!

and then I’d run through that angry air,

into my house, through the kitchen, straight

to my desk, leave that wind to itself

and to its shadows. I woke before

anything like that happened. I woke

 

to morning’s faint yellow aureole.

My hands were tired of being clenched,

I saw no evidence of new or

old miracles in the air.

I felt the smallness of the room, saw

the clutter on my desk, my sweater,

a dark heap on the back of the chair. 

Everywhere I looked, it was morning.

Martina Reisz Newberry is the author of 7 books of poetry. Her  most recent book is Glyphs, available now from Deerbrook Editions. She is also the author of   Blues for French Roast with Chicory, available from Deerbrook Editions, the author of  Never Completely Awake ( from Deerbrook Editions), Where It Goes (Deerbrook Editions), Learning by Rote (Deerbrook Editions), Running Like a Woman with Her Hair on Fire (Red Hen Press), and Take the Long Way Home (Unsolicited Press). 

Newberry has been included in The Cenacle, Cog, Blue Nib, Braided Way, Roanoak Review, THAT Literary Review, Mortar Magazine, and many other literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. Her work is included in the anthologies Marin Poetry Center Anthology, Moontide Press Horror Anthology,  A Decade of Sundays: L.A.'s Second Sunday Poetry Series-The First Ten Years and many others.

She has been awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts. 

Passionate in her love for Los Angeles, Martina currently lives there with her husband, Brian, a Media Creative. Her city often is a “player” in her poems.