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    Conversing in a Black Cadillac
    Conversing in a Black Cadillac
    Conversing in a Black Cadillac
    Ebook78 pages33 minutes

    Conversing in a Black Cadillac

    By Stacy Lynn Mar

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    About this ebook

    Stacy Lynn Mar is a poet, closet collage artist, introverted closet hipster, and occasional fan of The Beatles. She splits her lives between stay-at-home mother, forays into bohemian feminist literature, and part time psychology nerd. Stacy has been writing poetry since her lengthy introductions to Plath in freshman high school English, and has authored five collections. Widely published in the world of independent, internet, and occasional print magazines, when she’s not writing Stacy is busy pursuing a Doctorate of Psychology. She lives in Eastern Kentucky with her daughter and life partner.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLeaf Garden Press
    Release dateJun 21, 2013
    ISBN9781301357376
    Conversing in a Black Cadillac
    Author

    Stacy Lynn Mar

    Stacy Lynn Mar is a poet, closet collage artist, introverted closet hipster, and occasional fan of The Beatles. She splits her lives between stay-at-home mother, forays into bohemian feminist literature, and part time psychology nerd. Stacy has been writing poetry since her lengthy introductions to Plath in freshman high school English, and has authored five collections. Widely published in the world of independent, internet, and occasional print magazines, when she’s not writing Stacy is busy pursuing a Doctorate of Psychology. She lives in Eastern Kentucky with her daughter and life partner.

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      Book preview

      Conversing in a Black Cadillac - Stacy Lynn Mar

      Girl, Unknown

      I watch the girl

      With the red notebook,

      Saunter in uneven footsteps,

      Ghost of forty second street,

      Park at noon, corner bench

      Where her weary sneakers rest.

      She says the world is fading fast,

      Vast empty nest of illusion

      Where the writers fall into

      Dead wells of cynicism,

      Too many rejection slips,

      Said she once decorated the

      Walls of her room with

      ‘No-thank-you’s.’

      I asked her what she wrote about,

      She said dead presidents,

      The speeches they never gave.

      Sketches of conversation,

      Seemingly falling into the open wound

      Of the universe, she said

      She grabs all the lone, used syllables

      Before they are swallowed.

      She said some nights

      She cuts the stars loose,

      Watches them fall across

      Roofs of shingle and trailer tin,

      Just to have something to write about.

      Said Anne Sexton would have been proud,

      Her poet hands maneuvering the scene

      Of Vincent, gluing Sylvia back to the scene.

      And when I asked her

      Why she wrote, she smiled

      And said the words of her notebook,

      Though obsolete as they may seem,

      Were the threads that stitch

      The world together.

      Newspaper Clippings

      And before me lives a decade.

      The marsh garden fields of the 1920s,

      Men in top hats, refusing illiteracy,

      The Round Table, lunchtime controversy,

      Sinclair Lewis sewing their wings to the roost.

      Women dressed in goose feathers,

      dangling men between their fingers,

      Feet twisting to the Jazz of dance halls,

      To vie for the attention of a contest,

      A herd of chickens pecking for corn.

      Then a black and white photograph,

      Auction junk of the bidders payday,

      Thoughts and memories, a collage to rearrange,

      I found her there, with a letter on the back.

      "George, good news, the baby is okay,

      I named her Rose, after your mother.

      You will come back after the war, won’t you?"

      Eyes shining, expectant orbs, I imagined them

      A luminescent blue and prying, skyward.

      Waiting in vain,

      As if it took a whole century

      To ask the question.

      Where Life Is

      We read about life that summer,

      And friendship. Words of Anne River Siddons

      And Judy Blume jumping from commercial paper

      To spiral around us, that atmosphere of lovers and friends.

      How we’d cruise library shelves,

      Hunting down words like literary vultures.

      Pausing upon that big chair in the reading room,

      A Buddha, a Shaman, I bent my head in

      A silent séance of Melville and Emily Bronte.

      Do you remember how love filtered through those trees,

      The green, oh that green, miles upon miles

      Of trees and wildlife and history, our ancestry?

      How it swept into the car windows

      Rolled down, and churned itself like butter

      Into the music, the sustenance of our souls,

      Drawing its life force from

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