Dear Friends and Neighbors.

I have to financially limit myself to two paper journals a year, but I definitely read a lot of online journals each week.  One of my favorite recent finds is Keep Going, a small online journal, so I submitted some of my poems, which appear in their summer issue.  Online journals are great, because they are free and easily accessible from your PC or the library's PC.  Please visit http://www.keepgoing.org/ to view my work and the work of others.

I also buy a few chapboooks each year, which are cheap and such a purchase means the world to the struggling authors.  Support your independent publishers and bookstores too.  Although good things come from big publishers, they can't possibly publish all that is good, so find out what is happening in little printing companies and online. 

Lucy, on  sunny Seattle day, with swollen sinuses

To view more of Michael's poetry and essays, please visit http://mkitchin.vox.com/

Silly Sisters

Winter has smoky hair, shy of black

The Onion Farmer's Daughter

One Soul and Two Bellies

She is always coming back to me in dreams, the onion farmer's daughter with the dark hair like tangled reeds in a pond at dusk. She weaves in and out of my night-time wanderings, a shadow in white, her skin almost as pale, well, like an onion. She is beautiful in a gothic sort of way and always light on her feet. She must have been lovely when she was alive.

There is one soul that flits between Kathryn's and my belly all summer long – this onion farmer's daughter's soul, as if uncertain of where to land. It is not like that dove Noah sent out after the flood and there was one place to land. She has two peaks to choose between – two round white bellies, bursting with babies.

I sat eating my salad, grateful for the greens, as grateful had I been Rapunzel's mother. Shell was a Wiccan witch, but her greens held no charm. I was attracted by the skulls on the fencepost, an obvious reference to Baba Yaga. She was only ravenous in her lust for life – to rend things from the soil – to wrest babies from wombs and to twist people back into living, no matter how painful.

You see, I was not truly living when I encountered Shell, not living at all – merely ambulating through. It's damn painful to live and that's the truth, but the wild joy – like honeysuckle rambling up the fence is sure worth-it. The scratch of that metaphorical itch.

All summer, my husband and I would dig up change for the grocery store. At Shell's every week, I feasted on salad and good lean meat. She took me in and fed me and wrenched me toward living and out of the shadow-world I'd been inhabiting.

Percy's Mournful Banjo

His music has a way of creeping into the hollows like ivy with hands reaching. Percy makes banjo music sound mournful. He'd never play it too near the school, only in the wilds, a half-hour walk away on the narrow path. It is the saddest banjo I ever heard played.

His long white fingers move over the pearl inlaid arm, matte white on glossy white. It's a fine instrument fashioned by some country person with a bit of money, enough to have a son educated in the city. I wonder about the parents he never speaks of. I never talk of mother or Big Dad. There isn't much to say, except they live a hundred and seven miles to the north and west where the flat lands turn into hills that wear a sad blue cast in the evenings.

The girls say the woods are haunted, but it is probably the echo of Percy's Banjo. They would be horrified to see him now with his dark pants' legs rolled up and his pale tater feet in the water like some country man. They would be even more aghast to see him with me, who could never wash the stain of country life from her, having been brought to school by her mother in a simple rough-spun muslin dress, little better than a sack, save for a blue silk ribbon that was my mother's pride to have stitched to it.

No one saw Percy arrive at the school. He showed up one day in English class, a tall angular youth of twenty-five with fierce ringlets of red hair framing his Botticelli face. All the girls loved him and assumed him the son of some great Southern family, such a languid pale poetic man. I thought his face was rather too pinched, too infantile for a man, but still I fell in love with him.

He laid a white flower on my breast suddenly. So lost in thought was I, that I didn't hear his playing cease, nor notice that the light was failing in the east.

From the travel diaries of Johnathon Whitby

1. Venice

As I walked along the canal the sun was setting casting an orange glow upon the waters. An old grizzled man was selling carnival masks. I bought one that resembled a bird. I believe it was the mask doctors of the plague used to wear. I wished to be prepared for the carnival. This was my first time in Italy. I have never left England. Recently I have come into some renown as a flutist playing at Vauxhall gardens. I was able to sell my services as a music teacher to the most fashionable people in London. I remember the real poverty. I never thought I’d travel; such diversion being the pursuit of the wealthy; and to travel without purpose. Venice’s houses seemed closer together than the lodgings in London. They seemed to lean toward the streets, as if at any moment they would topple onto the passerby. The colors of objects are also brighter almost to tackiness. The Italianates wear such garish colors. I saw a lady and gentleman pass me—the woman wearing bright crimson and purple and the man dressed like an exotic bird with multiple plumes sticking up out of his cap. Maybe if we were more carefree in England we’d be a happier people. I do think in part it is the clime makes them so intemperate, but wholly enjoyable.

My knowledge of the tongue I fear is extremely limited. The people put up with my barbaric Italian with patient good humor. My only danger is being cheated out of my money by pickpockets and innkeepers. It has nearly happened four times this week already. I do not think it characteristic of the Italians. I met a Dutchman at the Rose Coffeehouse in England who said a large some of money had been stolen from under his pillow. I believe his name was de Hooch. He must have been an unusually heavy slumberer.

Tonight in this inn I met a most strange man. He was alone in a corner. He would have been a truly beautiful lad had it not been for his grimace as he drank his wine. I judged him to be very drunk and not entirely friendly. Nevertheless, as a curious, lonely person, I decided to approach him as the only other solitary denizen. I did so cautiously, smiling and nodding my head, letting him know that I had taken note of him. Then, a casual ‘Bon journo.’ To my delight, he spoke perfect English. What he said was disconcerting. Sneering, he replied, ‘Good! You might as well say a day in hell is bonny!’ Still I took the chair opposite him at the rickety table propelled by my curiosity. ‘Why do you say so, my friend? The carnival will be here in two weeks. Surely your love troubles can’t last!’ For such a young man, I had figured his trouble was over some young lady who had rebuffed his affections. For an older man, such as I am, remembers those countless transient, turbulent romances of youth. When he did not answer me, I rose to leave thinking I was an unwanted intruder; but he grabbed my arm. His grip was steely stinging into my flesh. If feared he would break my arm. I have always been weak. Up to this time, my congenial nature had prevented all fights. He seemed to realize the pain he was causing me because he shook his head and removed his hand. ‘Please stay and listen to me stranger!’ He pleaded assuming a docile manner that was odd on his countenance; which seemed more suited to viciousness. I stepped backwards not wanting to risk any violence from my deranged acquaintance. ‘No one has ever heard this story I am about to tell!’ I edged closer to him, but I still required convincing. ‘You see I am dying. I know it. There is a big lump in my stomach. It gets rounder and harder every day.’ I inquired whether he had consulted a doctor. For surely he could not baldly state that he was dying without consultation with a professional. ‘At San Marco, sir we monks knew medicine.’ This propelled me to sit and listen. I was surprised to discover the deep, disturbing nature of his affliction. I asked him if I could write down what he related. I brought out my small journal, my pen, and my ink. I am never at a loss for writing materials. I wish to record as much of his account as I can remember. I bought him another bottle of wine for his troubles. For a good story, I would provide him wine for its duration.

1. Alfano’s tale

My name is Alfano Giacomo. I came into this world in a bloody mess, hearing the panting fear of my mother. My father prayed fervently to Jesus that his beloved wife would not die. She was not merely half the household work, my father, a simple soul, loved her more than his own flesh. He, as he had informed me, made a solemn vow that night. He could relate every detail to me. It was pitch dark, a new moon night, with only the sputtering lantern for light. He promised that his boy, if healthy, would enter the religious life. My father, a deeply pious man, believed God had healed his wife of her hemorrhaging. Too bad she died only a year after that. I think I had broken something in her. But my father the great Signor Massimiliano Giacomo had made a promise to God. How was he to know that I would be his only son! If you are wondering, he never hated me. His love for me was beyond reproach. I had the best that he, in his poverty, could offer me. He never blamed me for my mother’s death.

I remember when I was twelve he saddled up Tito the donkey for the ten mile trip. He brought with him our fattest pig. I had named her Maria of the Mud. Since she loved the mud even more than most swine. He also brought some gold pieces. He was prepared to give not only his only son, but the majority of his wealth to God. He prayed the whole way, a constant holy muttering. In other words he was never good company. I whiled away the time gazing at the passing countryside. I was teeming with excitement for my new life because the dry green hills of my home were all I knew. I looked on strange houses and a carriage passed out of which a lady’s pale arm dangled enticingly. We entered the more urban environment of Florence. I could not believe the houses were so close together. The rubbish in the streets assaulted my nose. To this day, I think country people live a healthier life. But the Florentine people of all classes were remarkable in their variety. Simple hawkers sold food and wares. I wished my father would spend some of our money on something. I saw foods I had never known existed. Puffy sweets that looked like clouds! I saw, what I know now, were prostitutes hanging out of windows and calling to men in the street. I saw a bare breast with the red part in the center like a rose. And a black woman dressed in the most elegant blue silk. I had never seen an African. The journey was a strange one for me and I soaked in all these sights. While my father kept his eyes on the path dodging pedestrians and other carts. He trembled in fear.

We passed through the city and out into the rural areas. I could see the monastery gleaming white in the evening sun. It seemed as if God was blessing the structure. My father’s mood changed to one of sad reverence. He muttered his rosary even louder tears rolling down his red jowl.

We reached the front door of the guesthouse when it was growing dark. The sky was a lovely cerulean hue. My father knocked tentatively. We stood for awhile as it darkened. No one came to the door. My father knocked louder. Then I heard a rattling of keys and the door creaked slowly open. A wide blue eye gazed out at us. Gruffly, he asked our business at Dominics. He let us in, sneering it seemed. My father and I were told to sit on a hard bench. As we sat he grasped my hand. He was to be alone after this, forever alone. Sometime later, I thought that he must resent God.

When the hosteler returned we were informed that since we had arrived during vespers, the abbe could not possibly see us. We were shown to a small stone room that seemed barren of all comfort. As the door clicked closed, we were gazed about our surroundings dumbly. Later a young monk carried in a tray of bread and wine, smiling.

The next morning we were admitted into the abbot’s presence. I remember the transformation from the bleak architecture to the paintings and relative opulence. He too looked at us in scorn. In a stern voice he informed my father that the monastery usually admitted only those that could afford the payment of jam? This meant they only accepted aristocratic novitiates. He suggested the Franciscans would be more to our liking. Then he smiled at me a soft sly smile. I had done some reading when a traveling monk stopped at our house. He gave to me a gift of a fine vellum bound book. He had stayed for several months and taught me how to read and write a little. I fear had I not that little bit of education I would not have been allowed into the fold. For the paltry offerings, things that were valuable to us, my father brought could not buy the abbots favor. It was on my own merit the abbot turned kindly to me that day. He spouted charity to the poor ones; and said he could tell I had an active mind for study. Many of the monks grumbled, especially Prior Roberto.

             a dream of making love

you cry at me sharply                    like a peacock

stripped of plumage                       your fecund greens,

your violent blues                          your crazy eyes

                          all gone from you

we have never                              I am dreaming

moonlight spills                           so many pearls

                          from hidden oysters

Lucy Simpson

Seattle, 1/14/2009

“But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.” KJV 19:26

A Bit Of Lot's Wife

Chips of her wind-eroded trachea

blew away on a lachrymose wind

over the storming sands,

to enter a soup factory in this century.

Flavor of dispossessed woman

in my cream of celery,

I can taste it,

though I can't be certain

it isn't my own crying.

I crunch what must have been

when she was flesh

a bit of her tongue.

It goes down bitter

and comes up later,

unprocessed rudimentary

ancient Hebrew.

This is how I speak

in voice dispossessed.