Search Results

Index Previous Next We leave the beaches for the tourists, mostly and the history of tourism, a history of our shadow selves: wing-prints of fallen angels in shimmering sand, flapping, flapping – the soul’s earth mapping or a mating dance. Mouths, an upturned string of shells opening to a vast and mythical sky. These are the things they leave behind. A paddleball court etched in the muddy flats where a ruddy turnstone makes his nest’s scrapes, space for a female’s eggs; and seagulls dive for nacho chips and funnel cake; and the sanderling’s shrill song is the echo of a mother’s plea to her children out too deep. These are the calls we hear in our sleep. Or, the black-bellied plover’s plaintive call as he circles the shore for a sandworm or a crab – or for something, something to eat – and absently darts toward a sand castle made from plastic-cup molds and a child’s empty pail, pink or lime green or gold. And a wave with a biblical thrust catches them off guard: a torrent of coconut oil and ocean spray, a sandal, a drugstore romance – then the bright, shallow meadows and plank. Kitsch in a tide’s eternal crawl and roll and spray. Song and refrain. . Copyright © 2018 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Saw Palm: Florida L iterature and Art , Issue 13.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Ezra , Spring 2019 Prev 1 Next LITTLE BY LITTLE I begin by writing at first one word only immaterial and deadly right away another then another, then another little by little a poem drinking up ravenously and madly the very poison to the flower of my mouth A POUCO E POUCO Começo por escrever primeiro uma palavra apenas mínima e fatal logo depois outra após outra, após outra a pouco e pouco poema indo beber voraz e louca o próprio veneno à flor da minha boca 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

We Are Coming Soon Sign up to be the first to know when we go live. Notify Me Thanks for submitting!

We Are Coming Soon Sign up to be the first to know when we go live. Notify Me Thanks for submitting!

Index Previous Next Emperical God So the unmovable mover is one both in definition and in number; therefore there is one god and one heaven alone. ― Aristotle Start with the known, the way a child begins. A child begins by calling all men father . Then, later on distinguishes. Father : burrower, planter of unharvestable spring. Mother , first rope and ring tossed to a budding glove – a sustenance, like air or love. Love, that triggering nerve that in the Greek origin myth substitutes touch for a god’s imperative: union of sky and sea, sea and earth. Luminous bodies coupling like first birds. Call it one god, one heaven when learned through its carcass and seed – Palm. Milk. Soul. Wing. Palm, fallow field surrendering its feed. Milk, an ancient man’s mother’s plan. Soul, a rusted bell ringing, striped buoy bobbing, bobbing. Wing, a triumph and sudden cold. . Copyright © 2015 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Ruminate Magazine , Issue #37, December, 2015.

We Are Coming Soon Sign up to be the first to know when we go live. Notify Me Thanks for submitting!

Index Previous Next The Shadow Maker Our goal is to make it so there's as little friction as possible to having a social experience. – Mark Zuckerberg is the fifth richest man in the world; a harvester of pearls: our small talk like algae-rich waters and tides –new births, divorces, prizes our children acquire – feeding and keeping the oysters alive. is a master of illusion: figures in captioned poses, screen and light; shadows that dance on cave walls. Dramas that make us muse, lean in, post notes like medieval glosses in the margins of someone else’s domestic scenes; illuminators to an epic chant, a rhapsody’s god-dream. is the Ideal Prince, accepting the burden of princedoms, glory, survival, to jettison distinctions: good and depraved; monarch and something human saved. Better to be loved and feared rather than admired, or worse, revered. A lord who understands the desire to acquire. A magician with two hands. is a Philosopher King, able to discourse on goodness, justice, corrupting pride; hold court on high ideas: opinion, false truths, reality– a theory of forms that casts our lives in cycles, fruit and fallow; sinners redeemed. A god’s will altered; a cave master’s dream. . Copyright © 2022 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Sequestrum , Issue 32, June 2022.

We Are Coming Soon Sign up to be the first to know when we go live. Notify Me Thanks for submitting!

Index Previous Next First Place - Lazuli Literary Group Ethos, Logos, Pathos Ethos Because we are different from our dogs that leave their scent on white fence posts; the raised hind leg, the pioneering boast. Because we stand upright, wonder at vaulted ceilings, songs in frescoes: A lifeless man sculpted in plaster and paint, lifting his flaccid hand to – what? An animating touch, a spark, self-understanding? Or a patriarch called to brave a flood, reclining like a Roman river god, not from too much wine, but from such a familiar forgetfulness of our limited time. Because we build pyramids with steps: discernment following the climb. Logos Because Athens never really fell. A radiant vase unearthed; centuries of burnt clay covering its storied face: a ring of epic battles – centaurs, half-man half-beast at the throat of a cool- headed Greek. The choice still the same: Nature untamed or the compass calibrated? The watchful peeling back to the urn’s Attic shape – not with landscape trenchers, but dental picks. Precision tools. A slow-moving, pointing trowel, a sieve. Because of the mindful coupling of powdery pieces: specs of gold from a goddess’s shield, a warrior’s bones too brittle to touch. The true story so reliant upon a delicate brush. Pathos Because the healer is the wounded one. Chiron, casualty of friendly fire, Heracles’s poisonous arrow: Sentenced, in his immortal state to a life of unfathomable sorrow – A perfect medic for the would-be hero: Jason, adrift at sea, until a centaur more adrift steels him: Push on, pass up the Sirens, regain a stolen throne . Asclepius, protégé, healer celebrity, and yet so alone – except for the healer more alone: Chin up, the physician’s heart cannot be helped; tend to your soul . Achilles, fed innards of boars to awaken a warrior core; to quiet his ego: bear marrow. Because for the life worth remembering the cure is an errant arrow. . Copyright © 2024 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Azure , Vol. 8, March, 2025. Winner of the Lazuli Literary Group's Fall 2024 Writing Contest. Other poems in collection: "Plan B" and "Is There a Final Exam?". Editor's comment: I enjoyed the steady strain of brilliance and the profound sense of wisdom that runs through each poem, well-delivered through narratively evocative language and clearly intentional choices in poetic form! To cloak modernity in a sense of magic is difficult to do, and yet I feel your poems do so in a very useful way. I hope our readers find in these pieces the impetus for an examined life. - Sakina B. Fakhri

Videos Videos: Fres h Perspectives in Poetry - Video Series . In partnership with Atlantic Center for the Arts and with sponsorship from The Florida Humanities Council, M.B. hosts a four-part video series on poetry. Join her on a journey of learning from the masters. Intro: How forms liberate the poet The Sonnet: Then and Now The Odyssey & Today’s Returning Veteran Seamus Heaney: Master of the Lyric Book Trailer for Beginner's Mind ( Link ) Podcasts: Education in Literature Podcast . Listen to M.B. (Beginner's Mind ) and author Kevin McIntosh (Class Dismissed ) discuss the philosophical underpinnings of their new education-themed books with Regal House Publishing's Jaynie Royal and Pam Van Dyk who do a spectacular job of getting to the story behind the stories while also eliciting foundational commentary from these seasoned pros on the challenges and rewards of teaching in today's age. Interviews: Of Poets & Poetry - FSPA How I Write Kickstand Poetry Atlantic Center for the Arts AWP - In the Spotlight NPR (Utah) - Radio with Tom Williams The Authors Guild - Member Spotlight Sequestrum - Contributor Spotlight My Links: My Author's Guild Site My Amazon Author Site My Facebook Site My Linkedin Site My Teaching Philosophy Can Writing Be Taught? What Others are Saying: Florida State Poets Association Poetry Workshop Reviews Seamus Heaney Edward Field Florida Book Review Brad Crenshaw New South: Georgia Spoon River Poetry Review Robert Frost Foundation Sky Island Journal Reviews Salem College Book Reviews by M B: Paradise Drive Accommodations The Clock of the Long Now Dark Card Earthly Freight Selected Essays by MB: Garcia-Aguilera and Barbara Parker Odysseus' Wounded Healer Beginner's Mind in the Classroom Published Chapters from Beginner's Mind : Right Notes Isms The Good Thief A Purple Heart Ex-Patriots Fallen Angels A Good and Simple Meal

Amber Alert 2013 New South Writing Contest Winner “Amber Alert" is a poem that is so compressed it fools us into thinking it's only going to be about a road and a deer. The clean lines hold so much more – movement, murder, youth and sensual beauty stolen, worlds of boys and girls in collision, the hunter, the hunted, rituals, and poetry inside poetry – a "hunter's nectar." In the end, the poem offers a saving grace – “her heart.” -- Judge, Marilyn Kallet 2013 New South Writing Contest new south : Georgia State University's Journal of Art & Literature

Index Previous Next Snow Globe La Tour Eiffel. An April-snow like pollen covers a patch of stolid tulips. From the first platform, he leans over slick railings, leans as if in Keats’s scheme to drop and drop a red corsage to a woman below. I see it now: this is the one of 300 steel workers, who tumbled to his death clowning around. Her promise is to keep him from his fall by gazing back – his sentinel, his figurine against the filmy wash of elements against the fading colors in a dome. I shake it – not for snow – but to marvel at their hold. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Cider Press Review , Vol. 9, Spring 2008.