Thank you, As It Ought To Be Magazine

I am very grateful for the timing of this poem’s appearance. Yesterday it snowed in Los Angeles, Joshua Tree, California and over in Las Vegas, Nevada. Yesterday a story appeared about polar bears raiding a rubbish dump in Novaya Zemlya, Siberia because of poor sea ice.

I am one of those folks that write poems in response to things going on around me, so it is especially pleasing when I feel like the timing of a poem’s appearance is just right. Thank you, As It Ought To Be for featuring what I do. I am very appreciative.

“Plus Ten” By Jeremy Nathan Marks

Thank you, Derelict Magazine

Derelict Magazine is a literary journal which republished pieces which previously appeared in magazines which have gone out of print. They were kind enough to republish my poems “Torrent” and “Don’t Walk” which were published in Morel Magazine in January 2017. Morel, sadly, has since gone out of print.

For any writers who have previously published pieces looking for new homes, I recommend Derelict to you.

You can read my poems here:

https://derelictlit.com/poetry/2019/2/13/torrent-by-jeremy-nathan-marks?fbclid=IwAR2cjQO0CZ6JHb1GnWMU5Yeqik1qYAll0fV3N-VlLvl5XD0YO4H4twLkbVM

https://derelictlit.com/poetry/2019/2/13/dont-walk-by-jeremy-nathan-marks

Thank you, Eunoia Review

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2019/02/10/i-dont-dream-of-american-royalty/?fbclid=IwAR0uQvpzwLHSdghecKMQVWCA4k9yjkuBEtwmWWWJ0ftzkQn-aO-3U__upCA

I don’t dream (of American royalty)

King or Queen,
I don’t dream of American
royalty. I see a man and a woman
climbing the front steps of a slum
in blistering Chicago
and sheltering from the swelter
of a rock and a bomb

Cicero and Birmingham.

Queen and King,
I recall an enlightened
declaration that wasn’t worth
much if you count paper as
weight or gold over ash in
the mouth of Moses

I just hear
I Am A Man
in Memphis
and the memory of four
young girls in the twisting
bell of Coltrane’s sermon
to King’s after the girls were
laid to rest

And then Mrs. King,
say the given names:
Coretta Scott
having to raise her own klan
when the King was slain.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Thank you, Bravearts

You can read my poems “Pink and blue pegs (gamification)” and “Shining cities the mind” here: https://braveartsafrica.wordpress.com/2019/01/24/pink-and-blue-pegs-a-poem-by-jeremy-nathan-marks/

And here: https://braveartsafrica.wordpress.com/2019/01/20/shining-cities-of-the-mind-a-poem-by-jeremy-nathan-marks/

 

 

Thank you, Eunoia Review

My poem “Terminal Tower” is up at Eunoia Review today. It is part of a series of poems I have been writing about the Great Lakes region.

https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2018/12/29/terminal-tower/?fbclid=IwAR0qKv-fVDrc176aPAMs9UGUlVQH-Ne_12bnfVNBfDI7QN-j_EFEyJstbbs

Terminal Tower

Five years past, I walked to Cleveland from London,
Ontario. My passport was the memory of monarchs and
warblers.

I touched water at the Rondeau spit.

A shroud of perch bones settled on the lake’s surface.
It was January, season of thin oil fish.

When Erie thaws, shore dwellers sleep on feathers
not the moon of long-winged ants and day-dead nymphs.

When Erie freezes, snowy owls move down from the pole.
Toddlers cry out to hunters sighting flying dots.

In senseless white I thought crows.

For several miles out was a procession of voles.
In the shallows they sought smelts and minnows,
the lake their field of barley, bluegrass, the English gardens.

Over in a town no one knew,
a candidate calling himself Zyklon B
was elected; his first act named Town Hall
Terminal Tower.

This is for the great Cuyahoga fire, he said.

The snow I met was a cache of ashes.
It fell with vulcanized precision.

-Jeremy Nathan Marks

Lady Lustitia (It turns out)

My tribute to Aretha Franklin can be found here: http://ratsassreview.net/?page_id=2944

LADY LUSTITIA (IT TURNS OUT)

-for Aretha Franklin & Angela Davis

It turns out that I should read everything into music-

That piano intro into Think . . .
it’s just the footfalls of four youths
an afternoon before they were shot down
in the Algiers Motel in the hometown of

The Queen of Soul.

Those rising horns in Sweet Sweet Baby . . .
three hundred and fifty years of tidal Mississippi
rising to raise a gin fan and Huck’s raft
plus the flotsam rope they cut for some boys from Scottsboro

All thrown off a Tallahatchie Bridge to go down to the Gulf.

Let it all wash out among the hulls
of sunken ships and blown well heads spewing
the blackest crude onto those white sands
of a Riviera in Mississippi where they wouldn’t serve

The Queen of Soul.

The backbeat to The Weight . . .
well, shit . . .
It turns out that the weight itself was something
some Canadian of Mohawk blood
channelled like another black man felt the Wabash Cannonball
thumping through his pulmonary until he just had to become

A Pullman Porter.
A communist.
One among countless standing with patches
behind a hammer and a hoe.

All of them
and how many women
how many?
now soundtracking the debutante balls
on countless new plantations
from Oakland in Michigan
to Sunflower County
and the precincts of starvation wage
trash collectors in Shelby
that’s Memphis, baby

Rock steady.

The Queen was there,
is there,
must always be where mourners
and eye-of-the-needle transponders
move like Miss Angela herself
through the halls of blind Lady Lustitia;
how long she gon’ wait?

You listening?
The Queen ain’t done preaching.

-Jeremy Nathan Marks