The Salon of Writers and Artists

A very kind shout-out and collaborative nod from artist Chris Ludke, whose work inspired the poem at our Literary salon last week. You can check out her work here— the painting’s title is Poe’s Enchanted Garden. More info on upcoming literary salons in Richmond can be found on the James River Writers’ site, here.

Sisterhood of the Muse

This is the Patrick Henry Pub, where the Salon took place. This is the Patrick Henry Pub, where the Salon took place.

This poem was written by Joanna Lee.

On Hearing the History of the Poe Gardens at the Literary Salon in the Patrick Henry Pub

(based on the painting by Chris Ludke)

Nestled in a backdrop of chatter and raven windowpanes,

of sweating whiskey and melted rocks, light

plays on water and the pale of crepe,

of periwinkle. A sun plastically brightly cuts

the hard edge of a shadow that could stand

on it’s own, lonesome and unnatural.

And I remind myself this is about connection, that we,

rose-less, are a hundred variations of the same thorn.

Joanna hears her muse! You can look her up at

the-tenth-muse.com

This is the Poe Museum. This is the Poe Museum.

I thought the Salon was great! The 1st person to speak told the history of the Poe garden. It’s been through a lot of changes. It was…

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Wednesdays

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In the East End,
in a brisk wind, sleeveless,
I blow dandelions
through the abandoned lot
by the doughnut shop
across from the all-week
fleamarket, watch the minivans
pull in and out,
the oldsters settling
at the counter in turn
with the newspaper
and a cup of coffee.
Huey Lewis belts softly
from a tv screen hanging
in the front corner;
I catch you singing
into your t-shirt happy
to be stuck with you
as I sidle up to order
my glazed lemon,
and, like she means it,
the waitress smiles.

Like new leaves to frost in April

so many things can get lost
forever. like that cutting I stole
from a prickly pear outside the Mexican place
in Oyster Point when I lived there
for six weeks, learning
to deliver babies. never did
get it to bloom, and never did catch
a kid, either: one little bud
all I wanted to make it feel a little less
like killing time. I hauled
the thing back up the coast, nurtured
it for years, flowerless; left it with the rest
on the backporch that day after
mother died.  haven’t troubled
my hand with cactus since—
the yard all lavender and rose now,
like that bubblebath I brought her
that she never got to use,
only with thorns.