Holly Day

Uptown & After the Funeral. 2 Poems by Holly Day

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(i.)
 
Uptown
 
The newspaper makes me angry and I prepare myself
for a day of punching Nazis. I read about the local museum
being infiltrated by white supremacists and so I plan my day
around a visit uptown. My daughter asks me where we’re going and I tell her
we’re going to fuck some shit up.
 
I keep my eyes peeled for guys with shaved heads and swastika pins
combat boots and iron crosses but I don’t see any. Someone says
something kind of racist on the bus next to me and I look at them
but then they shut up as if they know what’s in my head.
 
 
(ii.)
 
After the Funeral
 
it’s become a contest of who knew first
who first found out how and when he or she died
who was closest, who has the best story. we get ugly
in our nostalgia, tread a difficult balance between
preserving the subject’s sudden sainthood
while expunging our most pointed, painful, awful memories
find some way to say we should have seen it coming
express surprise that it took so long.
 
afterwards, we each retreat to our private musings
on how if things had been different
it could have been any one of us
it should have been someone else. there’s a dark, uncertain target
over everyone we know now, ready to move on
who will be next.
 
 
Short bio: Holly Day (hollylday.blogspot.com) has been a writing instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review, and her newest poetry collections are Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), and Book of Beasts (Weasel Press).
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals and Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Out of Reach. A Poem by Holly Day

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the hand comes down
and pushes me down
and reminds me
that the wings that keep
trying to break through my skin
are not
to be trusted, that wings
are not for me. I let the hand
 
tear out
 
the feathers, the sinew
the brave new appendages
that would allow me to fly away
let the hand carefully bind
my broken skin
my bloodied back
in bandages that keep
new feathers from sprouting,
new wings from unfurling
 
overnight.
 
 

 
 
Short bio: Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and The Tampa Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Coming Home from the Hospital. A Poem by Holly Day

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She bumps against me in the seat and I wonder

what would happen if I took her, this girl

too young to be riding on the bus by herself

too young to be so close to so many strangers.

I smile and scoot over to make room for her to sit

 

imagine she’s my daughter, that I have a daughter

wonder if the other passengers already think she’s here with me.

I press myself up against the latched window

wonder what our life would be like together

I could pop the emergency release

grab her and run.

 
 

 
 
Bio:
Once again, winter’s almost gone and I don’t know where the time went. The trellis out back is covered with a lace of iced-over morning glory leaves and snow, and the little field mice are running rampant through the walls of my house, settling in to escape the coldest part of the year.
 
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), and Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing)
 
 
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times ; his publications include
 
All the Babble of the Souk , Cartoon Molecules and Next Arrivals, collected poems, as well as translation of Guadalupe Grande´s La llave de niebla, as Key of Mist and the recently published Tesserae , a translation of Carmen Crespo´s Teselas.
 
You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)

Strength. A Poem by Holly Day

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Light pours in through a thin slit of a window
blood red sunset illuminates silver
bells, golden chalices, the empty
half-orb of a sterile baptismal font, black robes
casually tossed over the back of a chair,
a pair of wool slippers half-hidden by folds of cloth.
Faces of concrete angels strain from the walls, echoed
in smooth porcelain, glistening oil on cracked canvas.
Worn Persian rug covers hard
stone, fibers holding still the ancient trace
of sweat from hands straining to hold the threads
in place on a room-sized loom, invisibly
imprinted by knees crawling after dropped things
wanted things, lost things. Tiny pile of mouse droppings
in the shadow of a lost corner, they want things, too.
 
 
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis , Minnesota , since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, and her published books include Walking Twin Cities, Music Theory for Dummies, and Ugly Girl.
 
 
 
Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times his publications include All the Babble of the Souk and Cartoon Molecules collected poems and Key of Mist the recently published Tesserae translations from Spanish poets Guadalupe Grande and Carmen Crespo  visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author.  See Robin performing his work Performance (Leeds University) .

Fox in the Snow. A Poem by Holly Day

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Blood red in the snow, a tiny spray of drops

an arc of unjust accusations frozen in time.

This place is more oil than air, echoes

rusted metal teeth snapping taut on a hand full of claw.
 

This spot, here, where her foot landed, where the trap is sprung.

She is white against the snow, like soft spikes of thin mercury, liquid,

tufts of white fur glowing bright against the brutal iron clasp

her nose quivers black and tiny, sees me, knows who I am.
 
 
 
 
bio picture
 
 
 
Short bio: Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis , Minnesota , since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.

 

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Pen Pal. A Poem by Holly Day

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My friend has been divided into perforated sheets of new stories

I tell her how I’m pretty here despite having being quartered myself

about the monsters that are loose in my bedroom again

the obscenities that come to the table at lunch.
 

“I guess I liked to be scared. There’s no other reason for my brutal sophistry

and tearing my hair out in mock terror is fun

and ripping my brain into confetti is fun

I enjoyed nightmares when I was a child, and this where I belong.”
 

Huge fish with sharp teeth complain about their weight

tell stories and poems that have been gnawed in half.

My last nightmare was almost as thin as I used to be.

I tell her how I’m pretty here when she sends me pictures of her:
 

Posing on the beach with nubile Afrikaners.

Washing oil off of penguins and seals.

In bed with her new cat.
 
 

bio picture
 
 
There’s nothing quite as wonderful as seeing the end of a long winter in Minnesota . The birdfeeder is busy with sparrows and warblers, robins are nesting in the back yard trees, and tulips and daffodils have pushed themselves up all the way up through the moldering piles of last-year’s leaves to explode in a frenzy of yellow, purple, and every shade of pink and red. It’s just warm enough that I can walk my dog in the morning without a jacket, but still cool enough that it’s not complete torture to work in my tiny, windowless office in the basement.
 
 
Short bio: Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis , Minnesota , since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.
 
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