Tag Archives: Renée K. Nicholson

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

Renée K. Nicholson

Renee K. NicholsonRenée K. Nicholson lives in Morgantown, WV, splitting her artistic pursuits between writing and dance.  A former professional dancer whose career was cut short by the onset of rheumatoid arthritis, Renee earned teaching certification from American Ballet Theatre and an MFA in Creative Writing at West Virginia University. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Chelsea, Mid-American Review, Perigee: A Journal of the Arts, Paste, Moon City Review, Cleaver Magazine, Poets & Writers, Dossier, Linden Avenue, Switchback, The Superstition Review, The Gettysburg Review and elsewhere. She serves as Assistant to the Director of the West Virginia Writers’ Workshop, and was the 2011 Emerging Writer-in-Residence at Penn State-Altoona. She is a member of the book review staff at Los Angeles Review, is co-host of the literary podcast SummerBooks, and co-founder of Souvenir: A Journal. Her website is www.reneenicholson.com.


Coda: Partnering

Your partner knows your body better than any of your lovers. He knows your means and hows, your hollows and crevices, how your weight is distributed through bust and hips and thighs. He doesn’t make fun of your large potato head or your stick-y-out ears. When you dance together, his sweat and your sweat mix, no way to tell who has perspired what.

You both sweat all through rehearsals.

He admires your strong, flexible feet and your strong, flexible back. You learn to trust that extra rotation, the flying leap that’s caught in air. Most of the time, you trust your partner more than you trust yourself.

The art of partnering is a lot like love, the coming together of two beings, two bodies.  These bodies, yours and your partner’s, are honed with technique and purpose and work. You condition it with daily class, daily rehearsals, daily regimens, a daily diet, your daily bottle upon bottle of water. Your partner takes the same classes, attends the same rehearsals, but carries out his own rituals and regimens. You respect that about one another. You respect what is physical, and you use it to reveal what is sublime.  He will hold your waist, circle your wrists with his hands. He will cradle your body, grip your thighs. It isn’t sexual, but it can be sexy.  The thrill is in creating something beautiful, as if beauty were something you do, not something you are.

In the low light of an expiring day, you will remember this, think of your partner more fondly than your past lovers. You will wonder where he went after you left the stage, what new and lovely creatures he supported and lifted and spun. You will not be jealous; rather, you will wish you could have seen these performances, your body humming with past knowledge. The sun will sink. It will rise again in pink streaks across a slate of indifferent sky.