Tag Archives: Elisabeth Murawski

Elisabeth Murawski

Elisabeth Murawski is the author of Zorba’s Daughter, which won the May Swenson Poetry Award, Moon and Mercury, and two chapbooks. She is a Hawthornden Fellow. Publications include The Yale Review, FIELD, The Southern Review, Blue Lyra Review, et al.

 

Never from Here

a yellow moon
naked belly of the night
leans over the child’s bed

Chicago night
fish smells from the river
nothing but dread to eat

thin cotton nightgown
weaving a cocoon
about her shoulders 

as she disappears
breath on a mirror
her habit

of covering her mouth
born here
prematurely tries to fly

Fuji covered with snow
a yellow moon
wrong part of the world

remembering a man
forever witness
in the corner of her eye

plumed hat velvet breeches
musketeer
observing her as event

the story in her hip
locked in
susceptible to touch

as her jumpy
hundred-meter heart
tripped by the starting gun

Elisabeth Murawski

Elisabeth Murawski is the author of Zorba’s Daughter, selected by Grace Schulman for the 2010 May Swenson Poetry Award, Moon and Mercury and two chapbooks. Hawthornden Fellow 2008. Publications include The Yale Review, The Alaska Quarterly Review, FIELD, et al. She currently resides in Alexandria, VA.

 

The Birthday Party

The crystal pendant in its box
catches the light. I hold it
in my palm, letting it warm
the lines for life and love,
the five-pointed star I forget
the meaning of. I am caught up
in my jewel song, daughter
of a king. I gush and purr
you shouldn’t have, the giver
smiling at my girlish glee
over a cheap bit of glass.
Always my difficulty: how to be.
Poor magpie in the mulberry,
believing in every shining thing.

Issue 2.1 Spring 2013

Click on the author’s name to read their 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.

"Yellow Trailer Wonder Valley, CA" Art by Deborah Martin.
“Yellow Trailer Wonder Valley, CA” Art by Deborah Martin.

 

"Missing Jacques" Art by Candace Fasano.
“Missing Jacques” Art by Candace Fasano.

 

"The Birds" Art by Christopher Woods.
“The Birds” Art by Christopher Woods.

Poetry:

Allen Braden | Anniversary Card
Carol Hebald | Winter Dawn
Esther Altshul Helfgott | Pantoum For Uncle Izzy
Paul Hostovsky | Poem
Barbara F. Lefcowitz | Golden Eyes
Kelly McQuain | Strawberries, Limoncello, Water Ice, Passing Time
George Moore | Fast As Saint Ignatius
Elisabeth Murawski | That’s Life
Martin Ott | Bandits | Refrain
Linda Pastan | Like A Bird | Legacies
Barry Seiler | Yarhrzeit
Elaine Terranova | Stairway
Arnie Weingart | The Rothko Chapel
Changming Yuan | Y

Fiction:

Elizabeth Edelglass | Family Circle
Abbigail N. Rosewood | The Ones We Keep
Annaliese Wagner | How To Jump Rope

Nonfiction:

Karen Donley-Hayes | Hens On A Porch
Jennifer Maritza McCauley | Home Ghosts
Joan Moritz | Penguins In Flight
Renée K. Nicholson | Coda: Partnering
Gary Presley | Knife
Enid Shomer | Small

Artist Spotlight:

Aron Wisenfeld

Translations:

Rosa Alice Branco | The Girls Were Lovely Lithe | The Men’s Hands Would Graze
**Alexis Levitin
Lidia Kosk | The Moon Above The Wild Apple Tree
**Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka
Maria Teresa Ogliastri | To Be Empress | Alfalfa Sprouts
**Yvette Neisser Moreno
**Patricia Bejarano Fisher
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Third Roman Elegy
**Brett Ortler

 

** Indicates translators

Elisabeth Murawski

Elisabeth MurawskiElisabeth Murawski is the author of Zorba’s Daughter, which received the May Swenson Poetry Award, Moon and Mercury, and two chapbooks. Publications include The Yale Review, FIELD, The Literary Review, et al. She was a Hawthornden Fellow in 2008. Currently, she resides in Alexandria, VA.

 

 

 

That’s Life

He’s with a much younger woman
on the Yellow Line train.
I’m sitting right behind him,

his graying buzz cut, a white
athletic sweat band hugging his head.
It’s the Lou Rawls ache in his voice

that floors. I quit reading my book,
the poem about changing the names
of paint colors: “Nerves”

for the frost of stars. Imagine
waking up to those vocal chords!
I wonder if he talks, a bee

making honey, cruising the cape,
the hip of his Lady Love. When
they exit at L’Enfant Plaza,

I get a better look. He’s stocky,
paunchy, moves as if, dancing,
he’d float like balsa wood.

She takes his arm. They disappear
into the swarm of tourists. That voice.
The caramel skin. I think of Len

who called me precious, charmed away
my resistance. It’s been years
since Manhattan, the lumpy sofa bed.

What will the girlfriend remember–
a pet name like mine, the first time,
Sundays on the Yellow Line? Him

asking a stranger to take their picture
beside the cherry trees in blossom
at the Tidal Basin?