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JOANNE COREY

5/2/2024

 
Poetry Fans, What a pleasure to shine the spotlight on a local poet who I have recently become acquainted with...Joanne Corey! I hope you'll enjoy her touching poems, "Over Eighty Years," first published in the Spring 2021 anthology of the Binghamton Poetry Project and later in Hearts (Kelsay Books, 2023), as well as "The Bridge," first published in POETiCA REViEW 20th Anniversary Edition. Thank you, Joanne, for sharing your words with SHINE!

Over Eighty Years
(for my mother)

The white bells’ scent rings heavy
like when my child-self sat in the lily patch
submerged in late-afternoon valley darkness

like your last May birthday
when we brought you a nosegay
of those same flowers, a few pips

dug from the hemlock humus that begat
more and more with wild
abandon to comfort

you
in your last
May-days.

The Bridge
(based on “The Water Lily Pond” by Claude Monet )

A poster of “The Water Lily Pond” has hung
above our bed for years with text

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art Exhibition - 1978”
when we were both teenagers

unable to travel to New York City,
though we could recall our younger

selves viewing other Monets on school trips
to The Clark in posh Williamstown, the colors more

alive on canvas than on poster paper
under taut plastic. Over forty years, that willow

has wept with us, that empty bridge offered a way
across, despite everything, those flowers still afloat.
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Joanne Corey re-discovered her childhood love of writing poetry in her fifties. A rural New England native and graduate of Smith College, she lives in Vestal NY, where she participates with the Binghamton Poetry Project, Broome County and Tioga Arts Councils, and Grapevine Poets. With the Boiler House Poets Collective, she has completed an (almost) annual residency week at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art in North Adams since 2015. She is the author of a poetry chapbook, Hearts (Kelsay Books, 2023). Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies and in several online series with Silver Birch Press and The Ekphrastic Review Writing Challenges. She was featured poet in the December 2022 edition of Portrait of New England. She invites you to visit her author site joannecorey.com for links to her work and to read her eclectic blog, Top of JC’s Mind, which recently celebrated its tenth anniversary.

    SHINE - International Poetry Series

    Picture
    Click here for submissions and more
    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is SHINE's honor to provide a home for their words with the online Spotlight series as well as SHINE Quarterly. Click on the logo above to learn more. And...keep writing, keep shining!
    In poetry,
    Samantha Terrell, EIC
    SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars Over the Dordogne

    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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