Posts Tagged ‘Marge Simon’

Published by Poetry Editor on November 30, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 32, Issue 32 Poetry, Poetry

George Tecumseh Sherman’s Ghosts

Florida, 1914

Most nights, you mention him,
the ghosts rise from the cypress
come back to wail and moan.
Haints all look the same,
can’t tell the whites from the Brothers,
‘cause the war took every one alike,
and some still stick around.

It’s been nigh fifty years, Granpappy say,
back when it was the Civil War,
and that man with crazy eyes came through—
old General Sherman and his men
took our food, our mules,
even our women along the way,
burning and blazing every field,
cotton or corn or sugar cane,
telling us we join up
so’s we’d be free, that’s what they said.

Granpappy almost starved,
beings how the soldiers got the food
and only scraps for the Brothers that survived;
still more drowned at Ebeneezer Creek
trying so hard to keep up,
a-marching straight to hell,
all the while still being slaves,
no better than the Reb’s to them.
But them haints, General Sherman,
they all look the same.

— Marge Simon

Marge Simon has won the Strange Horizons Readers Choice Award, the Bram Stoker Award™ (2008, 2012, 2013), the Rhysling Award and the Dwarf Stars Award. More at margesimon.com

Editor’s Notes: The superposition of solider statues on the base of the William T. Sherman Memorial in President’s Park (Washington, DC) in silhouette on a photograph of cypress trees (by blackmagic), all rendered in a ghostly sepia, complements the poem.

Published by Poetry Editor on November 28, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry

Serving the Blind Girl

The pigeons moan when the blind girl calls,
for she is hungry and will be wanting pigeon pie.

Eugene sits in his big yellow chair to polish his spike.
I watch as he brushes the chamois over the walnut pole
until his fingers are stained darker than his skin.

We try to please her with small things, whatever we can manage.
I am embroidering a pillow for her with lilies that she can touch
on the surface of the rough cloth, perhaps even feel their color.

The blind girl is the last of her kind but she is not a witch,
not those poor creatures that were burned or drowned.
She calls us in visions when our services are needed
to purify our flock, and graciously we comply.

We are hers to bid, as a mother would bid her children,
and not a one of us dares question her except for fools
such as Rafe, misshapen and foul-mouthed, often drunk.
So it was natural that his blaspheming head wound up
on the sharp end of Eugene’s pole, supper for the crows.

There is always a great feasting and celebration
whenever a head finds its way to the spike,
when the blind girl calls.

–Marge Simon

Marge Simon lives in Ocala, Florida and is married to Bruce Boston. Her works appear in publications such as DailySF Magazine, Silver Blade and Urban Fantasist. She edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, “Blood & Spades: Poets of the Dark Side.” She has won the Strange Horizons Readers Choice Award, the Dwarf Stars and Elgin Awards and the Bram Stoker Award® for Poetry Collection.

Published by Poetry Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Poetry

Another Place

Marge Simon

Because he’d have it no other way
—that man she thought she loved—
she went with him into the cosmos
to a temporary station on another world.

the forever sunset of a tangerine sky
strange perfumes from singing trees
flowers delicate as ancient lace

Because she’s lonely, misses home,
he brings her a lifeform for company.
She nurtures it from silky floss
to dazzling wings, whispers baby names.
She says it calls her Mother,
but he only laughs.

fragments of dreams
her children calling
wings fluttering
come fly with us

He finds her out wandering
without a mask, talking to herself
or dancing alone among the trees.
She refuses to eat their rations,
doesn’t like to be touched.

So, when his work is done there,
when he is tired of her laments,
and sick of her sickness,
her deformities growing
impossibly fast,
those ugly wings,
that rasping cry—

he leaves her there to dream,
even into the next dawn
of her beginnings.

Published by Associate Editor on August 19, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Poetry, Poetry

Awaiting Another War in D Minor by Marge Simon

narrated by John C. Mannone

Illustration by Sue Babcock

Jennifer arranges a set of Edwardian chairs
side by side on the beach, one red, one brown.
I smile, for she wears her best bombazine blouse,
giving me a hint of the night’s festivities ahead.
Licorice gives her a headache, but she enjoys the taste,
and the color compliments her attire, even to the point
of turning her lips and tongue and teeth black.

We bleed ourselves under the moon’s horn.
Jenny’s fluted silver dipper shines with our fluids,
and smiling, she ladles our offerings into the tureen.
Once a communal bowl, it is again just so.
Later, when the moon lowers in the southern skies,
she’ll summon the drinkers to partake of the bowl,
followed by a group read of The Wasteland.

We do enjoy those moments,
waiting for another war to manifest itself,
if not in the worlds beyond our door,
then here tonight on this silver beach,
where a beautiful woman cellist plays
Bach’s Suite Number Two in D Minor
and the soldiers dance around her, mad with lust.

Marge Simon is a past president of the SFPA and editor of Star*Line. A former 1995 Best Long Poem Rhysling winner, she won the Bram Stoker Award™ for Superior achievement in poetry, 2008, the Strange Horizons Readers Award, 2010, and the SFPA Dwarf Stars Award for short poetry, 2012. Her flash fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Vestal Review, more. www.margesimon.com

Published by Associate Editor on February 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 21, Issue 21 Poetry, Poetry

Catana

by Marge Simon

Fall comes.
I step outside for a smoke
hopeful for a glimpse of her, and yes!
she’s basking in the afternoon sun
all tawny gold, her hair the color of leaves.
She stretches a shapely leg,
lifts it up to lick her silky fur.

My breath catches
at the sight of such raw beauty,
but she hears the match strike,
turns toward me with a snarl.

She moves away quickly,
crawls into her lair under the house.
At least I can tell it won’t be long now,
she’ll have our kit before the cold.
Afterwards, I’ll bring it in.

She won’t like it,
doesn’t like me, doesn’t like
to be touched, but she’ll allow it
for the sake of her kit—our kit.

If only she were human,
she’d love me as I do her.
But she’s a hominid,
more feline than woman,
product of modern science
and sold like the rest for pets,
sex toys or concubines.

She doesn’t understand
what true love is.

AUTHOR BIO: Marge Simon’s works appear in publications such as Strange Horizons, Niteblade, DailySF Magazine, Pedestal Magazine, Dreams & Nightmares. She edits a column for the HWA Newsletter and serves as Chair of the Board of Trustees. She has won the Strange Horizons Readers Choice Award, the Bram Stoker Awardâ„¢, the Rhysling Award and the Dwarf Stars Award. Collections: Like Birds in the Rain, Unearthly Delights, The Mad Hattery, Vampires, Zombies & Wanton Souls, and Dangerous Dreams. Member HWA, SFWA, SFPA. www.margesimon.com

Published by Associate Editor on February 9, 2014. This item is listed in Introductions, Issue 21, Poetry

Introduction to Issue 21 Poetry

by John C. Mannone

I get excited in presenting a slate of poets to you every issue, which I try to make better (if that’s possible). I also like to try new things. In this issue, the celebrated poets, Geoffrey A. Landis and Mary A. Turzillo, husband and wife, are our Featured Poets. I think you will find it interesting, humorous, and enlightening to see how two speculative poets and writers develop their craft, under the same roof. Enjoy the interview and a sampling of their poetic styles with “Curiosity” and “Night at the Manatee Motel” by Geoffrey, and “Blue Tulips” and “Whales Discover Fireworks” by Mary.

Marge Simon treats us to a creative poem, “Catana,” which segues nicely into a love poem by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. Steven Gordon translates this passionate poem from Spanish to English. (This is another new feature I hope to see more of in future issues—poems-in-translation.) “Attic Dust” by Sandi Leibowitz is emotionally charged is an experimental poem (with respect to structure). John Grey’s “The Last Ride” brings a bit of fantasy to the table, but it is much more than that.

Thank you for reading and listening to these poems (most of them have an audio file for your extended enjoyment.)

John C. Mannone
Poetry Editor