April Poetry Month (Day 23): Stephanie Lane Gage #wppoets #npm15

[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]


Stephanie Lane Gage is a visual artist (specializing in printmaking), designer, and writer. She grew up in Lawrence, Kansas and later moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin to study at the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design. She’s also a curator of both gallery exhibition events and art- and writing-based zine publications. In 2014 she curated three publications (No-Coast Summer, Elsewhere, Copyright Vol. 2) and two gallery exhibitions (Elsewhere, Friction in Flack Space) as well as collaborating on a exhibition of her own artwork and writing with Grace Mitchell at the Netherlands Gallery entitled Oddly Swallowed. She was a featured writer in the fall 2014 issue of The Artist Catalogue and participated in several poetry readings in Milwaukee.


“poems for new york” (October 2014)

bow string broken underground
and the tone of it echoed for miles
lead me down the hallway at one AM
in a straight line
follow the lights & don’t look back, orpheus
the dust between tiles will linger
and your feet stutter, you
all metal bones stiff, exiting
don’t quite see the streetlights through the mist tonight

& God save Sol LeWitt
black structured & spine-like
back-brace extruding & beveling your perception of it
what if it was the black cube instead
or the gray cube
or the frosted translucent cube
reflective in it

I thought I saw you
in patterns
behind marble eyelids, suspended
lamented in the mouths of subway singers
and the polyphony of moving air
of metal on metal
of the gap between buildings and flawed intonations of the bitter condition
I don’t think that the dogs & the flowers should be kept separate.
I thought I saw you then, too
I thought I heard you say you agreed

“it’s time for me to leave this place”

you stand
you—sunflower stalk all tall and alien and lovely
and I—perhaps a glint in the sidewalk below

your hands are big, the lines on your palm are legible
walk, go
lead us, meriwether, to the mists of the pacific.

soft now & warm
or the persistence of rain

it talks to the frost barren
opposite side of the window-glass

you see
he said
I get the lonelies real easy these days


the floor’s got its own plans it’s huddled in dirt
and dust
the glass of bourbon falls both ways
I think it’s just whiskey
unless the floor is building its own Tennessee
drawing state lines like arguments
I figure
it shouldn’t last
you looked
downwards and
it just

like phantom speech

you wolf-biter


[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]


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