Showing posts with label The Sunday Poet: Marc Zegans Doug Holder. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Sunday Poet: Marc Zegans Doug Holder. Show all posts

Thursday, December 21, 2017

The Sunday Poet: Marc Zegans

Marc Zegans ( Left)



     Poet Marc Zegans writes, 

"I was 2010 poet in Residence at Bascom Lodge, a 2004 writer-in-residence at Mesa Refuge, Point Reyes, California, and I enjoyed a fine run from 2010-2013 as Narragansett Beer’s first Poet Laureate.
As a spoken word artist, with a penchant for immersive theatre, I perform periodically with the New York Poetry Brothel under the nom de plum, Bellocq C. Obscura. My first spoken word album, Night Work, was released in 2007 by Philistine Records, and my book of erotic senryu, Pillow Talk, appeared in 2008 (G.Spot Press). My second album, “Marker and Parker,”performed and recorded with legendary jazz pianist Don Parker (2010), is featured on Tiny Mind Records. My latest collection of poems, The Underwater Typewriter, will be released in September 2015 by Pelekinesis Press.
My poems have most recently appeared in Wick, Lyrical, and Ibbetson Street. My poetry website is MarcZegans.com. "





Provisioning

she let out a fractured cry
from this ancient crust body
legs purple from toe to knee
lighter than her nightgown now

complete congestive failure
a fact in seven hours
but here, now, was life
in defiant excess

hurtling up from her gut
in a mother’s terror now
of abandoning her child
an adult of no merit

who was somewhere distant now
as the rage to live burned low
deprived of fuel, not desire
in this devoted mother

her husband of six decades
tossing on his creaking bed
praying that she be quiet
knowing silence was the end

"It’s ok to let them go"
I said, holding her frail hand
As the New York sky lightened
in her South facing window

"And me too,” I said, “me too.”
“And what about the children?”
“They will live and remember.”
“Who? Who will they remember?”

“You. They will remember you.”
“Are you sure that this is so?”
“Yes. It’s alright to let go.”
“They will not hate me for it?”

“No, You have done well by them.”
“They will not die without me?”
 “They are strong and will live well.”
“I’m not so scared now.” She smiled

squeezing my hand in the dawn
eyes closing for the first time
in this night of lost demons
and final dispensations.

marc zegans, december 2017

Saturday, August 27, 2016

The Sunday Poet: Marc Zegans

Mark Zegans



Marc Zegans is a poet and creative development advisor.  His previous collections of poems include, The Underwater Typewriter,  and Pillow Talk. Taconic  is from Marc Zegans’s newest collection, Boys in the Woods, a limited handmade edition from Crane Maiden Books.  It can be purchased at :  http://www.pegsimone.com/storep3/Boys_In_The_Woods_by_Marc_Zegans.html


 

 
WALK

he’d never been in forest thicker than stars
when we turned off the grey, moonlit clay road
into the cool black of trembling leaves
a congress of tiny whisperers, voices
fluttering down from the canopy
foreshadowing the physical descent
in the days following frost.

it’s so loud,” he said, reaching for my hand.
it’s so loud…and dark, and quiet and loud
and I can feel the rocks through my sneakers.
I can’t see anything, but I can feel.”
what can you feel?”
the rocks and the air.”
what does the air feel like?”
cool on my arm.
on my face it feels like a soft blanket.

and under my feet I can feel the rocks.
some of them are very gig, an other
will make me trip if I run over them.
I think we need to walk very slowly.”
I think you are right.”
and we need to feel.”
what do we need to feel?”
the space around
our hands and our fingers and our bodies.

so that we don’t go crashing into trees
or go falling down a cliff in the dark.
it is very very dark you know, dad.”
how dark?”
I have not seen this much dark
I cannot see you. I cannot see my hand.
I do not think I can see the forest.
maybe we are part of the forest?


is the noise in this place the sound of god?
do you think god lives here in the forest?
I think maybe we are hearing him breathe.
let’s walk slowly and be very quiet…
just so you will know, I am not scared.
I think not seeing is not a problem.
I like not seeing as we start to walk.

I can smell the lake. it’s right down below.
I can smell great big rocks. we’re near a cliff.
if we move up the hill we will not fall.
look right there, you can see very dark trees.
dad, do you think we are finding a clearing?
I think we might be. let’s see if we are?
look! we can see stars now in the forest.”

he stood giant-eyed, counting countless stars
his blond hair washed white in the moonlight
slowly turning circles, until he yawned
placing his hand once again in mine
as we entered forest thicker than stars
walking now with the knowing of place
that arrives only once in a boy’s life.