Category Archives: Saturday Poetry Series

SATURDAY POETRY SERIES REMEMBERS OKLA ELLIOT WITH JOHN GUZLOWSKI

By John Guzlowski: LISTENING TO DEATH How do we listen to death? We listen to the sound of death The way we listen to the sound of the sea To the message the waves pound against the shore Their soft … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES REMEMBERS OKLA ELLIOT WITH PAUL CRENSHAW

By Paul Crenshaw: FOR OKLA All that late-night talk of light, and life, all those words, which became like worlds. Which we both know were. If you even need words anymore, wherever you are, what world you find yourself in. … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES REMEMBERS OKLA ELLIOTT

A version of this post was featured on this series in December of 2010. It is being shared here today as As It Ought To Be mourns the loss of our founder. By Okla Elliott: THE IDIOT’S FAITH Three lanterns … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: STACY R. NIGLIAZZO

By Stacy R. Nigliazzo: “Harvesting Her Heart after the Accident” first appeared in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts/Matter Press. All other pieces are previously unpublished. Today’s poems appear here today with permission from the poet. Stacy R. Nigliazzo‘s debut … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: GILI HAIMOVICH

AND THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT SOFTNESS By Gili Haimovich People are still flirting with trying to look younger, to make each other laugh. Their existence is softened by the luxuries of having some time, some needs, met. People are still eager, … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: ELISE PASCHEN

AFTER THE SQUALL By Elise Paschen In need of air, she unhinged every window, revolving ones downstairs, upstairs skylights, mid-floor French doors, swept into the house the salt-brine, the cricket chirp, the osprey whistle, the sea-current, sound of the Sound, … Continue reading

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SATURDAY POETRY SERIES PRESENTS: IN THE ABSENCE

From IN THE ABSENCE By Dara Barnat: IMPRINT I hear you’re gone and I fall with you. In that place part of me stays, like a hand in clay, even as I make rice for dinner, boil water, measure the … Continue reading

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