Tag Archives: Linda Pastan

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.


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


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


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


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

Linda Pastan

Linda Pastan’s 13th book of poems, Traveling Light, has recently been published by Norton. She was Poet Laureate of Maryland from 1991-1995 and has been a finalist twice for the National Book Award. In 2003 she won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.


Like a Bird



Despair is like a bird. Not a crow with its dark
wings, its shadows
over the heart;
not a raptor,
all appetite.
Despair is a sparrow,
no color at all,
pecking away
at crumbs,



Joy is like a bird.
Not a robin, with
its arrogant breast;
not a mockingbird— ventriloquist of the air.
Joy is a white ibis,
glimpsed once or twice,
its great wings opening
like theatre curtains
onto a blue
dazzle of sea. 


From my father comes the dark current
that runs under the surface of my life;    

from my mother the old need
to please at any cost.

The residue of memory is honey
on the hands, so hard

to wash away.  Let my demons rest
in the coffin of the page,

not in my sons and daughter
who speak another dialect,

though we signal to each other
from the separate shores

of youth and age.  I leave them only
a map in the genes

and a residue of memory like honey
on the hands.

I leave them consolations
of sun on a lifted face,

faithful as the nurse who pulls
up the blinds each morning

to call the sleeping children
back to the world.