All posts by BLR Staff

Final Issue

Click on a title to read an author’s work(s) and bio. Let us know what you think on our Facebook page and on Twitter using #BlueLyra. Also, consider leaving a comment for everyone to read.

“Paul” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

“Broadway Joe” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

“How the Grass Grows” by Susan Weinstein

Fiction:

Rowan Johnson | Rusty Tools

Nonfiction:

Rakefet Kopernik | Saba
Joan Wilking | I Asked the Bird 

Translations:

Aurora Luque | Home Alone  | **Maria Elsy Cardona
Cristina Rivera Garza | happy redux | [beam in the water] | **Julia Leverone
Rosa Nevadovska | In a Field | A Home in the Bronx | **Merle Bachman
Nurit Zarchi | from Zarchi’s book Abel will Kiss Me | **Gili Haimovich

Book Reviews:

Lucille Lang Day | Becoming an Ancestor | Review by Lenore Weiss


**Indicates Translators

Richard Shaw

Richard Shaw is a poet residing in the Connecticut River Valley of Massachusetts. A former dancer and choreographer, he spends part of his time as a Rolfer®, aligning, balancing and making more spacious the human body.

 

Night Music

                        for Mstislav Rostropovich (1927-2009)

1.

My house tonight
is a bathysphere
on a deep sea expedition
down into the Bach Cello Suites

we plunge steadily
as surface light disappears
and the pressures build
our small porthole beams light
that can be seen from the ocean floor

 

2.

The No. 4 Suite has just begun
the high-wire act of its opening bars
they pirouette unfettered
notes cascading loose-limbed
in perfect harmonic progression
hovering over an invisible net

it’s the maestro’s late recording
the one where he’s holding
as much loss between his arms
as cello

 

3.

The ocean floor ripples
from the vibrating strings
barnacled ribs of old shipwrecks hum
as the slow sarabande
echoes through the deep
bouncing off the bottoms of continents

through emerald sea light
eyes open since the Pleistocene
a giant manta ray sails
coursing through whorls of sound
while synchronizing the slow riffling
of its great wings

 

4.

These deep sea contemplations
transform each time they are played
even in my small sanctuary
in the middle of the night
with the candles guttering
and the pines shushing like waves

an old gnarled hand
nimbly balancing a bow
pleads out chords
the way an oyster meticulously
buffs a rough grain of sand
into the opal of rising moon