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This poem won 1st prize and publication in Sensations’ Magazine’s Coney Island anniversary issue [1998]. The issue won 1st prize from American Literary Review.
“Steeplechase...” and “White City...” have been performed by other poets in 23 states.
Picture a crowd gathering under a marquee. Season: summer. Pale linen, pinched waists and ankle-tickling skirts. Threading for tickets, you brush against a woman. The gardenia in her hair erases car exhaust, pomade, and sausages. Even the dog present you stepped in. For now, anyway. {Women, check out the blade tippin’ his hat. Seems like a gentleman . . . life's a coin-toss, right? Comedy~!} The marquee reads “Straw-Hat Theater presents Laugh, We Thought We’’d Die." It, the theater, and the play are imaginary. But the drama is real. Poetry! For plot, substitute colorfullanguage and joie-de-vivre. Time & action up for grabs. Actors weep, gnash, and roll. Our "play" opens during Coney Island's heyday. By the time a New York couple drags back to the grind, they can close their eyes and ride the Loop-DE-Loop. So can we! Like artist Marti DeMore’s illustrations, the metaphor is perfect.
But let's hear from some of the fans:
"Phyllis Jean Green fuses humor, energy, and surprise in her poetry with her original language . . . Her words demand to be read again and again, producing different insights through images that stun the reader's imagination and provoke second thoughts. Often she takes risks, taking readers to the edge of a cliff, daring them to jump." --Sara Claytor, poet & fiction editor for Harlan Publishing "It is in Ms. Green's poetry that her magic works best. One is reminded again and again why poetry is a leading form of communication. Plain and simple, her work is alive, entertaining, and fun. It is easy to feel you are in the hands of a gifted writer . . . ." --RC Rutherford, Editor, The Moonwort Review Enjoy the show~!
Excerpt
No Easy Gift
[Merci, V.Van Gogh]
Messieur, if you could see me roll
lazy and fat across your swirl
of yellow, yellow, yellow hay,
or sip a ruby shimmer
out in your yellow-chaired café.
Or bathe in your blued and lavendered
Paris, mirroring magnified jolts
from the diamonds spelled out on your easel
that dreams replace every night.
This is a one-time gift. So please,
come back and paint more irises.
I, like you, am all eyes.
We will steep in your passion
as we butterfly off a balcony
rioting with flowers wild to be fish
so they can swim down emerald
parroted with persimmon and teal.
If you could measure the beat of my pulse—
all our pulses—your razor would stay.
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