Best of Write From Wrong: Poetry

Poetry can be defined as the language the soul uses to express emotions. With that said, poets April Chye, Sandra Florence, Changming Yuan, Keith Moul, Lynda Bullerwell, and Holly Day have translated their souls onto paper which has earned them a spot in our annual Best of the Year Issue.

“While at Write From Wrong we take pride in everything we publish, the following poems stand out to me long after their original submission. Each poet commands your attention–and keeps it, giving you the out-of-body, extra-sensory, super-groovy feel that all good poetry does. April Chye takes you to Paris, Sandra Florence makes you wet, and Keith Moul invites you to take your own liberties.”- Siobhan Watson, Managing Editor
“Day makes an ordinary event- a simple conversation during dinner- mean much more. The triviality of the scene seems to conflict with Jesus’s presence in a way that makes me wonder, and read the poem again.” Hayley Battaglia, Fiction Editor
“Selections were based on a forcefulness of expression… to the frankness of Holy Day.” Keith Gaboury, Book Review Editor

April Chye (June 2011 Issue – Playful Poetry)
From “saudade”

later, our world will end, with
water traipsing up my navel, and
embracing my neck
like the lovelorn drunk who clutches jack daniels by the throat,

and I will stand there
by the tips of my toes
like a lover waiting to be kissed,
because it is the only form of survival I know,

gasping for air
as the ground that bound spirit with wildfire,
bodies with black magic, the ember glow
with the velveteen dance crumbles away,

and at the very end
your lips will be replaced
with the cold influx of water,
and I will say
what I had always suspected,

heaving dagger to our necks,
plucking harpstrings from our chests
trailing crimson ribbons
along our skin,

we were in paris,
held french curves to our faces,
live until we didn’t,
knew it was burning
but savored it anyway

later, when our world ends
flushed with desire
and so in fire

I will say,

honey, I think we were in paris all along.

Sandra Florence (January 2012 Issue – Pabulous Poetry)
Water is the World’s Consolation

the back stroke at night looking up into the sky
a dark net of shattered glass
water laps a warm breeze drifts across your nose,
almost indescribable,
as if smelling,
breathing in
the stars, the sky, the underwater lights,
and the breeze
that has passed through the limbs
of mesquite trees
creosote bushes
an intense gold-green scent that sweeps everything
water is memory of drinking down the world,
full immersion into the dark stream,
for a moment your grandmother’s dress billows
in water,
your mother wipes away tears and the sticky
residue of leaves,
confrontation of water and flesh
discrete moments of solitude,
your chest aches and thumps,
the damp hair under your cap is electric and tingly
as you drift until you reach the other side
your hand touches the concrete wall
a deep dense odor of wet pavement
playing in the streets after a summer rain,
the hot asphalt steams under your tennis shoes
as you cross the street to find your friend.

Changming Yuan (June 2011 Issue – Playful Poetry)
SAWS: A Seasonal Poem

Summer: in her beehive-like room
so small that a yawning stretch
would readily awaken
the whole apartment building
she draws a picture on the wall
of a tremendous tree
that keeps growing
until it shoots up
from the cemented roof

Autumn: not unlike a giddy goat
wandering among the ruins
of a long lost civilization
you keep searching
in the central park
a way out of the tall weeds
as nature makes new york
into a mummy blue

Winter: after the storm
all dust hung up
in the crowded air
with his human face
frozen into a dot of dust
and a rising speckle of dust
melted into his face
to avoid this cold climate
of his antarctic dream
he relocated his naked soul
at the dawn of summer

Spring: like a raindrop
on a small lotus leaf
unable to find the spot
to settle itself down
in an early autumn shower
my little canoe drifts around
near the horizon
beyond the bare bay

Keith Moul (March 2012 Issue – Pullulating Poetry)
Taking Liberties

They agreed she was no thief
but surely she had taken


made free with her senses
with exquisite bodies
tendered by her own horticulture.

He delights in
her gardener’s right to reap,
to splash blue,
purple, pink with red
and throb with the mélange.

She faces south in pure obeisance.

Like the iris opening
pendulous with an orange beard
he stands by at full alert.

Lynda Bullerwell (August 2011 Issue – Pantomorphic Poetry)
3AM Frame of Mind

I wish I could word- play with reasons
why stars shine
only when you and I

are beneath them

or contemplate directions that fireflies take
to marry fantasy with what is real.

If we could take a leap
within some 3:00 am frame of mind
and end up in the same galaxy,

would you mind?

We could laugh like imaginary friends
until light awakens us

from the dream that met your hand in mine.

I saw a shadow in a painting
that fit your silhouette
so I sat and waited for a signature
of that artist in Paris
so we could somehow be connected

and then I saw a shooting star.

Holly Day (November 2011 Issue – Palpable Poetry)

When Jesus came to dinner
He was perfect. He complimented me
on my silverware pattern
although He didn’t seem to notice
I’d put the good china out.

Later, over coffee and cake
He’d admitted that He hadn’t been following politics too much
had been absorbed in tracking weather patterns
bird migrations
global things.

“If it’s on television, I probably
haven’t seen it,” He explained.

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