connections

For some mysterious reason, there is hardly anything that quickly sets my gears of poetic semblance into motion like the basalt road scrolling out under the determination of a bus or the glinty parallel lines of rail and tie dotted by the toot toot toot at level crossing.

One of my first significant publications was a poem I wrote sitting in the upper level of a double-decker Megabus heading from Toronto to Montréal.

Under similar unction, “Connections” manifests as a sort of lullaby, woven with sights and meditations, wrought from train travel as well as sitting at the altar of late summer surf.

This poem first appeared,  in print,  in Banshee, issue #5 (Autumn/Winter 2017), available here.

 

what can you find at the intersection of the highways of poetry and physics?

photo: s. roberts

Sometimes it’s love.

The Physics of Love and Other Uncertain Phases of the Chemistry in Coulomb’s Law.

Read my suite of poems, exploring love, using five equations in physics as springboards, in the spring 2017 issue of The Gambler.

a conversation in poetry with stephanie roberts

BURNING HOUSE PRESS

by Amee Nassrene Broumand

I invited poet and artist stephanie roberts — who has poems on Burning House Press and in The Arsonist Magazine — to trade lines of poetry with me. I’d never collaborated with another poet before, so the experience was something of a leap into the unknown. We began emailing poem shreds back and forth. The days flowed by, as did the weeks; the lines formed and shifted. Soon, a poem emerged —

(α)  ANB:

Lacewings quake in the crepitation of thistles

& reeds. Crickets creak wintled heartbeats dry.

 

(β)  stephanie roberts:

It would have been perfect, the river remapped boundary;

the embryonic recreates in its image.

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catawampus

Listen to the poem, “Catawampus,” read by the author, published in the inaugural issue of The Arsonist Magazine by Burning House Press. Editor Miggy Angel.

BLACKBIRDS by stephanie roberts

The Rising Phoenix Review

BLACKBIRDS

for frank o’hara

toni morrison would say, he dragged that child by her hair. her hair!
her fellow red-wingeds sprang to her like mama blue jay
will come at you, gloves to the ground, and flat out belt you
in the head if jay jr. is sitting on the patio table.

just bikinis and bare feet, they flapped around—rage-afraid.
their Girl pressed through the earth, in her pink triangles,
with that brute of a crow perched—glock and badge fists
wound in the braid of tender feathers under authority’s uniform sneer.

a thirty-something, forty-something, fifty-something, sixty…
rat, in khaki cargo shorts, tan polo shirt, ubiquitous go-team baseball cap
and sandals, strolls past mayhem as a ten year-old colonialist unnotices
a slave auction or a southern man a lynching. scarecrows off-duty
compassion’s cornfield.

across and over patio tables of devilled eggs, seven-layer dip,
barbecue chicken, collards, codfish, patacones, suya,
satay, tamales…

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