The Year of Tawana* - A Poem (from "Speaking to the Darkness")

How much of her story
was true?

Tawana found
in the trash,
abused

how much was fiction?

I walk down 8th Avenue
at midnight,
summer in the city
that never sleeps
return to my
rented studio
in Hell's Kitchen

only there's a
homeless man
passed out
in the dark, narrow
stairwell

Too afraid, I return
to the street
call my roommate
from a payphone
on the avenue
in full view

six black males
approach loudly,
but I look past
unaware as my call
goes to voicemail

one is chanting

only when they are
within feet,
do I hear the crazed one
chanting --

"Revenge for Tawana!" --
while looking straight
at me
his frenzied face
alive with a fire

I catch the eyes
of his friend, who sees me,
and pushes him
onward and away

I run into a bodega
and amidst stacked cans
of rice and beans
pray.

Note: *For more info on Tawana, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tawana_Brawley_rape_allegations

Love is.... - A Poem

Love is not
        a diamond
        a display
        a wedding

Love is not
        two becoming one
        a perfect fit
        sublime all the time

Love is
       a pure expression
       so utterly simplistic --

Love is kind.


By Mary E. Lohan

MOMA - A Poem

MOMA

(From my book, "Speaking to the Darkness" (Poetry, 2013), now available via Amazon.

Note: I wrote this poem one hot, sunny afternoon after a visit to MOMA. It's fabulous to post this as a blog because I can link to all of the paintings which will make its meaning more clear. :-)

The sun
kindles the sky
I dodge the New
York suits

the anthill scramble

of lunch time
pay the speckled lady
in the white, wide lobby

to broach the mazes

of these boxed halls,
the din of school kids
directionless,
            spins then falls,

up the aligned

escalators we go,
lovers and others,
like me, alone,  stroll

at the top, Marina

Abramovic —                                               
B&W films roll
suspended,

within a few steps,

post-war tension
jiggling breasts,
one feminine
face, aghast
      upended
mid-scream,
      extended —                                                                                                                                                                                
I retreat to spaces
less impeding —
the calm and familiar 
floors beneath:

Still Life with Apples,                                                           

Cezanne,                                                        
stippled, deep landscapes,
Matisse,                                                         
Still Life with Three Puppies,
Gauguin                                                           

                  But
why does Picasso's
Wives & Lovers
sadden me so?                                                                                                                                                                      
I leave burdened
by their loss
of color, their heavy
lined faces
that have yet
to grieve

Until, she bids me

Stay —

the Girl Before

a Mirror with her     
bright gestured
wave

with so much to say

like Christina

from her World*                  
reaching, reaching,
              Come back for me..

I cannot leave

              yet

with one still to see,

— Roulin**,                

a tourist

videotapes
him,  proud,
bright, always
a showman
his beard blaring
from behind 
the glass

What a precocious

       fellow:
always a flirt.

 *Christina's World - Wyeth

**Portrait of Joseph Roulin - Van Gogh
Note: About MOMA

Snooker at Sally Longs Pub (Galway) - (From "Two of Cups")

"Everyone has to learn to drink
somewhere."

It's yellow versus red
only you pause now and again
to teach, leaning in
so I can hear...

your palm flat on the table
you pinch your thumb
close to your finger

and the ball flies
direct to its mark,

if I can only aim better
stop hitting my head
on the hanging lamps

I pocket a few proudly,
and sweetly you
give me more chances

four Guinness and
I'm still standing

I watch you play another,
but don't want to stare,
so I occasionally look away

you smile after
a close game, and say,

"Had I known you
were paying attention,
I would have played
better."

Note: About Sally Longs

What We Know About the Wind - A Poem (from "Four Folded Corners")

It always changes, the wind,
we never really know it's mind

invisible
a breath

from some it comes as anger,
from others, as song,

this untouchable force --
it's nothingness
stirs the most delicate flower
unscathed,

and yet,
it can move worlds.

By Mary E. Lohan

Clonmacnoise: A Tribute to Ireland (From "Two of Cups")

If you stand still

you can hear
eternity
in the prayer
of the devoted wind

I palm

the tower wall
gaze upon
the River Shannon,
and follow
your lead
through these
monastic ruins
that now pay
homage to the sky

ruins are a long salute

goodbye.