Hello group, 

The new-born stickler, i.e. moi, squirmed when she saw that a verb 
was missing from her self-description. It should read: "a poet who 
wonders when/where/how her poesis will finally sprout from seed to 
sapling."

Recently, I've been obsessed with getting punctuation right, in 
poetry, that is. Or, at least, trying to be conscious about how I 
use it. This is the aftereffect of Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero 
Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss, a hilarious 
reference book. Yes, I am one of those paranoid people who proofs 
her e-mails. 

Journalist by profession, educator by aspiration, poet by dream.

Here's a sampling: 

Zipping across Brooklyn Bridge

Bolts of steel shot up 
into the East River sky 
with the force of water 
from a smashed fire hydrant. 

For a nanosecond, they engulfed 
cabbies zipping to Brooklyn. 
We held on like the accused:
clutching the bars of prison cells,
waiting for a sliver of proof 
that would cut through them 
like an electric saw. 

Bolts of steel grew elastic 
ballooning like fishing nets
before they hit 
the still surface of sea.  

After a second, they opened 
into diamond shaped holes. 
We stared at the digital clock
stationed on a DUMBO terrace 
that spoke in army time to  
New York days darkened 
into Brooklyn nights. 

Bolts of steel sprang out
with the impetus 
of nascent saplings
searching for a piece of sky,
of sunlight, of atmosphere,
they could fondle, be mothered by.

Minutes later, the sky nestled
in rectangular cut-outs of night
held up by the bridge's parallel rods 
struck us as an inky blue that
neither the spears of New York 
nor the expanses of Brooklyn 
could be umbrella-ed under. 

It was a cobalt, 
supple only in transit. 
 








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