Bolton Hall Museum, Photo by Teresa Mei Chuc
The Village Poets are pleased to invite poets and poetry lovers to the Monthly Reading at the Bolton Hall Museum on Sunday, February 22, 2015 at 4:30 p.m. Featured poet, B.D. Love, will be joined by those who wish to present their work at the Open Mike. Refreshments provided.
Over the years since he has earned his M.A. in English/Creative Writing from Syracuse University, he has quite serious writing altogether, formed several punk inspired bands from Syacuse to Dallas to LA and once more Syracuse. He returned to writing seriously after a freak accident shattered the elbow of his right arm, and he was told he’d never play guitar again.
Since resuming writing, he has published in a great many journals and literally magazines across the nation, and has shepherded six books to print, four full length fiction books, one full length poetry book, and two chapbooks. He is currently “shopping' two new poetry books. His most precious new project is a song cycle for which he as written lyrics, with the gorgeous, soaring melodies provided by the great Maura Kennedy, another Syracuse expatriate. It’s called “Villanelle: The Songs of Maura Kennedy and B.D. Love.” Should appear this Spring. Our holiday song, not really limited, is out on Amazon.com and iTunes and CD Baby. There is a mutual photograph of us there.
This poem comes from my new book, “Hounds of Wonder: Life in Dogs.” It’s about rescue dogs and their special love. And it is not sentimental. This poem was featured in Nimrod International Journal, Lasting Matters…
Little Landers Declaration. Photo by Maja Trochimczyk
I hold a photograph of you sitting in a box
Half-full of trim from the ancient pepper tree
Whose leaves would choke the eaves and drives and vex
The neighbor lady, who pleaded for the penalty
Of downing — this for a being much of her time.
She’d pass, pure white, beneath the “dirty” limbs.
“There’s a fungus among us,” my mom would chime
By way of warning. Indeed, there was. Death has her hymns.
But here you are, roots in the mulch, your face
Courting the camera’s heart. The shutter clicks
And off you go to sniff all crones and grace
All trees with piss before a smaller box
Arrives to collect the last of the dust to fall.
Some old limbs creaked that night. I heard their call.
(C) by B.D. Love
First published in Nimrod
Photo by Teresa Mei Chuc