Sacramento Poetry Center to feature Emily Hughes and Lauren Norton
In my first hosting event of 2012, I will feature Emily Hughes and her friend Lauren Norton, both from Davis, California. I have featured Emily before, and I am glad she is returning to the SPC in January.
The reading is on January 9 at 7:30PM at the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Here, in
the coffee shop, I sit across a couple playing cribbage.
windowed space.
The reading is on January 9 at 7:30PM at the Sacramento Poetry Center.
Emily W. Hughes is a poet,
educator, and backpacker from Sonoma, California. Recent work has been published in the Sacramento News & Review. She has been featured on “Dr. Andy Jones’
Poetry & Technology Hour” on KDVS.
Her blog, thealleysoflife.blogspot.com features posts on day trips,
hiking, and recipes. Emily received an M.A. in Creative Writing from UC Davis,
and teaches English at American River College and Cosumnes River College.
Love Poem.
I love
you like the moon loves the sun.
Maybe
that’s a cliché. I don’t care.
There’s
a Bob Dylan song on.
I look
past them, and see us—hips and hands
nearly
touching.
We are
the sun and the moon.
Our conversation
brings animal and element.
Yours—eagle
wings and flame.
Mine—tiled
pools and clay.
Bring me an eclipse.
I will
open
a new
home—it will be ourwindowed space.
-
Emily
W. Hughes
Lauren Norton is a
writer and musician from rural Ireland. In 2011 she was named one of the Over
the Edge New Writers of the Year and was
a recipient of the Jack Kerouac Poetry Prize. Poems
from her first collection Wink and Elbow have appeared in The Attic, Ropes, Bray Arts Journal, Poetry Bus
Magazine and Poetry Ireland Review.
Spherical
Before
my brother discovered online poker
he
would spend whole days kicking a ball
against
the side of our house.
Persistent,
methodical as a clock -
the
grout-freeing bang of the ball
hitting
the blank face between windowpanes.
He
could do this for hours, my mother
going
out at intervals to yell at him
when
he left prints on the windows
in
thin hexagonals of mud. Last night
I
bought three cantaloupes, their little round
seems
starbursting with ripeness.
I
lined them up in the parking lot
of
my lover’s
apartment complex
and
launched each one at the stucco
with
a belt of my right foot.
The
melons exploded in a cruciform
around
the door, seeds and gizzards
fusing
with terracotta paint. Swatches
of
skin fell to the ground. They looked
delicious.
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