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Index Previous Next 2008 Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit The Retrieval Here again. The way you used to wake us – rouse us with that impatient stare. A stubborn, boy-crazy, eighth-grader you make the same requests. We say them with you. Isn't this what happens when some of us bring water to the dead? This private shift to living only sometimes with the living. Eight months among the missing and you come padding back in your white socks and jeans; specter of grief we locked away before it made us more dry-mouthed and speechless than our counterparts in dreams. Grief like light encounters in a half-sleep: your moist face in a morning mirror. Are you in someone else's too? O, city of mirrors. And how, each night you casually resume at every threshold to every listing room that awkward lean -- the one you would do when you could not ask, but knew that we could help. Your bony shoulder barely touching the wall; your right foot crossing the other. So much the pose of one who is neither coming nor going. It's difficult to know why we should wake. Still, every day we rise like guardians ex officio, like gate-keepers to a city of passing shades -- each one a new acquaintance with your face. Each one a new petition for deliverance of the innocent and quaking. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award - Special Merit. Published in The Comstock Review , January 2008.

Index Previous Next Melville's Reader With an ease that belies his theme my boy slumps into a mold of his own small back. Chair or taffrail? The waves blend with his thoughts. And far, far out of range, I search my heart for a send off: To follow a runaway's lead? His optimism? To see our little horrors and be social with them? A summer breeze. And now the pages turn themselves; he shifts and shifts. Perhaps the helmsman stares now at the flaming try-works, sees the shapes: harpooners poling, pitching that hissing mass -- a reckoning so stark he slips into a soporific dream then suddenly comes to, but dead astern, his mind ignited wondering how to save the ship from being brought to lee. I remember reading that scene until I could recite it. But now, he lays the book like open wings across his lap and basks and basks in summer's luxurious light. I watch him like a swabber come to save a listing ship and keep a kind of vigil while he naps. Was God above young Ishmael as he packed his bag for Cape Horn, the Pacific? Or, in New Bedford, when he read the fate of whale men? An average, good-hearted, dreamer at the masthead. Watcher not watching, chatting with Queequeg. O little dreamer, never in more danger than on your sunny perch, move your foot or hand an inch, loosen your grip and midday, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through the transparent air into the summer sea. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Spoon River Poetry Review , Winter/Spring 2008.

Index Previous Next 2014 Robert Frost Award - Finalist Sugaring Sestina for an ill boy A loyal maple lingers by your bed: nature fiercely altered. Its sugar finds your pulse, then trickles in with a rhythm partly boy, partly tree. For comity we call it Mr. Pipes: a way of making peace with hard adjustments. It takes long freezing nights and thawing days to make the sap come like this -- a big run. Drip after drip, each steadier than the last, run through clear lines. I see, now, nothing’s altered that hadn’t already gone awry. Your limbs, thawing in the afternoon sun. The only rhythm -- rations of sap met evenly, at last, with insulin. The hard trek back from a seizure’s arctic grip: whistling pipes, banks of white cotton; a nurse (too cheerful) pipes up: how brave you are, and you’ll be up and run- ning in no time. A promise? Or a wish for her hard- luck kids? One spring, we got behind; buckets overflowed, altered the ground below to a sticky mat that sounded the rhythm of hard luck in thick, slow plops. The whole world thawing like centuries of ice cracking beneath us, thawing the gummy linings of blackened buckets and pipes – dripping with a precision suggestive of a subterranean rhythm. I read, that spring, that scientists can tell if the sap has run up from the roots or down the bark – but, not why its taste is altered year to year. Always the questions we care about that are hard. And “coming to” always the same: that hard expression sweeps over you. Your eyes, half-frozen pools still thawing: late winter, but late in feeling the seasons altered. Your way of banning ceremony, or welcome-horns, or pipes. Your way of taking back the small reserves that run from you each time you lose this fight. Your fitful rhythm yielding to this old-world, pacing rhythm. And knowing where to greet you, here or there, always so hard to gauge. Which is the place of the senses? Where we out-run our fears? You take us there, each thawing day, it seems. Limbs or pipes? We give up these distinctions. Nothing is altered that wasn’t already granted. Nothing is altered that makes us see things hard to see. Some call it god, others just tendrils thawing. . Copyright © 2014 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Naugatuck River Review , Winter/Spring/ 2016. Reprinted with permission from Robert Frost Foundation . Semi-Finalist, Naugatuck River Review's 7th Annual Narrative Poetry Contest

Index Previous Next Oaths, Curses, Blessings As a girl, I learned to hurl a curse so it would hurt. The skill, not in the words but in the work: bringing the self to feel another's precious losses as though they were one's own. And then, like an informer against the heart, delivering the blows: May you wake without air, without light. May you walk with a league of homeless shadows by your side. Although it was play it frightened me to see a hex take hold in a friend's eye, to see the crushing sorrows one can summon with the mind. Tonight, in the ashen shadows of your room those curses seem to linger like stray dogs reminding me, as the unfortunate always do, of our double lives. Our tendency to come to terms too late. Your breadth, like oatmeal's blooming scent, circles them in a breeze. Above us, light that should comfort: glow -in-the-dark stars careen like clockwork through a black sky. For a lamp: a shuttle that turns unceasingly over a dimly-lit earth. I cover you again, although this August night is still and though it's me that's shaking. With a different girl behind us, this stillness might be our grace. Instead it keeps me here tonight not praying really, but pacing. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in the Georgetown Review , Spring 2008

Smiling at the Executioner Poetry by M. B. McLatchey Published November 22, 2023 by Kel say Books REVIEWS M.B. McLatchey’s Smiling at the Executioner is a brilliant collection of poems inspired by the Stoic philosophy, but don’t let that stop you from enjoying these poems, which know how to live on their own, to take root in your heart. These are the kind of poems you hope you can remember to quote when in moments of uncertainty. McLatchey is not some one-trick theme artist who will sing you “I get knocked down, but I get up again”—NO!—she’s the one who will serve you images, sounds, and textures that make you want to read this book aloud. She will bring you the taste of bread, the promises of olives, the singing of hunger, and the love of desire. —J.P. Dancing Bear , editor of Verse Daily M.B. McLatchey pens these perspicacious, wise, and musically intelligent poems with a sincere gratitude for being alive in an era when “our histories are shadows on a wall; our memories rote lessons that flicker and mutate.” These masterfully crafted poems are an antidote to our complicated age of technology, machine-enforced intelligence, and screen-based isolation. They applaud every moment of humanity, from folding a fitted sheet to drawing a bath, for knowing “what we were, how to retrieve our former selves,” and for putting the necessary spirit back into spirituality. —Jen Karetnick , Founder and Managing Editor of SWWIM , author of Inheritance with a High Error Rate , winner of the 2022 Cider Press Review Book Award Smiling at the Executione r is a philosophical exploration of survival, love, marriage, men, family—and words— inspired by the Stoic mind, using image and metaphor from ancient and contemporary myth. Like an ancient story, this book is so rich it is hard to pick and choose—each poem a meditation on the Stoic desire to keep loving one another, and to persevere. When writing of forgiveness, McLatchey writes, “not a sinner’s crawl; a purging of the stench /of an unkept stall; a never forgotten love, /Penelope’s woven—and unwoven—shawl.” —Lee (Lori) Desrosiers , Managing Editor/Publisher of Naugatuck River Review , author of Keeping Planes in the Air , Salmon Poetry If they aren't already familiar with her degrees from Harvard and Brown Universities, the title of M.B. McLatchey's book will draw readers to the superbly written content. Even though the author has endured hardships, she faces them with ideas that flow serenely off the page. It's beautiful to glimpse McLatchey's understanding of her range of control and the way she expresses her emotions. With rich imagery that never fails to create a lasting image in one's mind, McLatchey paints vivid scenes that entice each of the senses. Some poems have so much depth the reader may wonder about the challenges the author has endured and briefly consider the role of "J" in the pieces dedicated to that person. Many of the pieces unfold like stories, leading the reader to devour the author's thoughts and absorb the language. Smiling at the Executioner is a great selection for readers who enjoy eloquently written poems within a work of collected thoughts. —Courtnee Turner Hoyle , Reader's Choice Where to Order: Kelsay Books Amazon Barnes & Noble Book details: Publisher ‏ : ‎ Kelsay Books (Nov 22, 2023) Language ‏ : ‎ English Paperback ‏ : ‎ 100 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1639804544 ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1639804542 Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 5.6 ounces Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 6 x 0.25 x 9 inches

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Springhouse , Fall 2019 Prev 5 Next FROM THE BEGINNING At first I wrote in brief mutterings and the halting service of a wing unaccustomed to the flight of words Then I found my footing in the very depths of myself in the courage of the verses where one reaps raptures from the body of the writing Next I began to haunt verbs and to reinvent metaphors the syntax of passion the icons of time the doubts, the dilemmas In writing poems AB INITIO Primeiro escrevi com breves murmurações e lentos cuidados de asa desabituada do voo das palavras Depois ganhei pé na fundura de mim mesma na ousadia dos versos onde se colhem os êxtases no corpo da escrita Em seguida comecei a assombrar os verbos e a reinventar metáforas a sintaxe de fogo os ícones do tempo as dúvidas, os dilemas Escrevendo poemas Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Springhouse , Fall 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next War in Eurasia We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves. - Orwell, 1984 We sleep like guard dogs, one eye open, groomed to unlock from one another’s folds. Older, a cooler grey than our adult years. Your breast, like a forbidden prayer or scent or thought, presses against my arm. The war in Eurasia rages on. The dull flicker of the TV; the news anchor’s lips tattooed a deep party red mouthing vowels: A and E, and O – not I or U. Everything in black and white, or streams of sepia. We hardly remember the difference between the news and truer truths; the sum of two plus two. Harvest seasons pass. Dictionaries yield a sulphury marsh gas. Winters sprout days of halcyon, golden wheat. We yearn for myths that lean on goddesses of crops, a mother’s loss and rage, a revenge drought. Love is the warrior’s call. We knew it in the womb, first breath, when we were made to choose: a dying art, or this waking death. . Copyright © 2022 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Sequestrum , Issue 32, June 2022.

Index Previous Next Featured in Verse Daily - 2024 Afterlives Only faces in little boxes now; blinking and peering into a starless space, not knowing what to do except perhaps, wave. Our host asks each box: What’s new with you? We talk, in turns. We share the virtual part – meaning the essence . It’s lovely. How this half-body huddle forces us to talk; how we conform, like grafted stalks, to a new light source. Dante insists our afterlives will be the now eternal. I study my husband’s framed face unselfconsciously. No one can see me gazing at our years. My sons, I see, have become men whose eyes are equable and clear. Time lapses freeze, in pixel images, expressions like true selves they made as toddlers. On TV, the Pope delivers the Mass to empty seats. How alone he looks – in spite of the live stream. No pilgrims, no Vatican City festooned with flowers; only police to hold the barricades. And yet, the numbers say, more watched and listened to the liturgy than ever attended. On sofas that sag, on laptops, in drive-thru caravans for bread and wine. An insistence on right seasons if only to prove we are different from our dogs. We hear a whistle too. . Copyright © 2020 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality and the Art s , Issue #1, Fall 2020. Featured in Verse Daily ® with permission, 2024.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Ezra , Spring 2019 Prev 3 Next THE HAND AND THE WRITING I let my hand run through my dream sudden wakeups thirsty in the invention of the word the other side of pain and the truth of the page A MÃO E A ESCRITA Deixo a mão correr pelo meu sonho num sobressalto sedento no invento da palavra pelo avesso da pena e a lisura da página Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Ezra , Spring 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next Rhonda Gail Williford Poetry Prize - 2nd Place For a Dying Child Newborns in incubators in the IC Unit at Gaza’s largest hospital are dying as power fails and resources run out. – Palestinian Health Ministry, NBC News We wished for you a greenhouse gardener’s plan. His skillful hands. Seeds laid down in planting beds centuries old; a loyal water drip; roots taking hold; green tendrils taking to the gardener’s light. Stems kept alive – acacias, myrtle. An impenetrable inside. And not this grieving season. We wished for you a clear domed sky, light thermal winds to thaw your nestling trim, plump up your chalky skin. An angel to release your brittle frame from hissing tubes; smooth your two-week-old, old man’s head; anoint you with a name – before you are one of five listed: unnamed dead . And not this killing season. We wished for you ladders propped against shimmering olive trees. A long- limbed boy gingerly plucking, shaking the seeds. In a blur of boy and twigs, a laurel for your head: silver-green leaves. For certain harvest, sheets of netting below. Certain soap; certain oil, the essence of citrus, the golden-green glow. And not this hungering season. . Copyright © 2024 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Winner of the Rhonda Gail Williford Poetry Prize, second place. Published in International Human Rights Art Movement , Fall 2024. Source cited: NBC N ews

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Isms Excerpted from the book Beginner's Mind Salem College Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award This is the work of an original, smart, and talented writer. She has a great storehouse of knowledge and a penetrating understanding of many subjects, including human beings. It is wonderful to read someone who knows a capella, Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei, as well as Carol Channing and Hepburn (and knows the difference). When has a school room been given such vivid enunciation -- the dioramas, shoe boxes, sticker-stars, and clay figures, the comfort of “half-truths” for other children, but not for Miss D’s. With a “sideways glance,” they took it all in, and were forgiving, like Miss D (whose door says welcome, an endless acquittal). It is difficult to see any of us “condemned,” and yet, there are standards. Standards! I can’t go on admiring line after line, when I am only on the first two pages in my commentary (and my language is so stupid and pale in comparison), but that’s what this essay does to me; it says look, see, remember. Word for word, sentence by sentence, I am enthralled. Thank God for Miss D, and for being reminded that at least one or two of my own teachers were, if not her equals, close sisters. While the writer appears like a new comet on my horizon, I am wild to know what this writer will do next. Meanwhile, she will be “graded,” though A+ hardly describes my admiration. -- Emily Herring Wilson, Judge 2007 Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award Salem College Penelope Niven Creative Nonfiction Award