The Nox Anthology - Dark Poets Against Abuse
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| A Community of Voices All of the poets in this collection have donated their work, in the hope that this anthology may provide validation and catharsis for people who have suffered abuse in their lives, and to raise awareness among those want to understand the depth and subtleties of emotional and physical mistreatment. A regular donation is made in the names of all participating poets to CASA (Community Action Stops Abuse), a safe haven organization for individuals working to free themselves from abusive environments. _________________________________________________________________________________________ |
On Leaving
by Sandra Lindow
When winter came to her, she married him,
taking him into her body,
and let him use her,
a grim pleasure, seeing herself stripped
but for her naked pride.
She figured she deserved it,
she who had worn her finery
like a blazing crown;
and while life drained from her limbs,
he filled her and she slept,
dreams passing like pale birds
leaving paler memories,
stray feathers in her hair.
But there was a place in her
he could not touch --
cleft within her hollowed heart
a bright-eyed nester
sleeping away the cold,
that one who, born to dumb trust,
held onto it like a nipple
having known nothing else.
And the rhythms of keeping watch
on wispy breaths posed a question,
words like cirrus clouds
blown eastward across the fields,
words like steam from the Delphic kettle,
a riddle, a question, a koan,
"When all else fails, why not live?"
At first is was a tingling at the extremities,
like a foot that had been asleep,
then a shivering along her veins,
both pleasure and pain,
an aching, a pulsing akin to desire,
and finally after so much time
the courage simply
to leave.
___________________________________
by Sandra Lindow
When winter came to her, she married him,
taking him into her body,
and let him use her,
a grim pleasure, seeing herself stripped
but for her naked pride.
She figured she deserved it,
she who had worn her finery
like a blazing crown;
and while life drained from her limbs,
he filled her and she slept,
dreams passing like pale birds
leaving paler memories,
stray feathers in her hair.
But there was a place in her
he could not touch --
cleft within her hollowed heart
a bright-eyed nester
sleeping away the cold,
that one who, born to dumb trust,
held onto it like a nipple
having known nothing else.
And the rhythms of keeping watch
on wispy breaths posed a question,
words like cirrus clouds
blown eastward across the fields,
words like steam from the Delphic kettle,
a riddle, a question, a koan,
"When all else fails, why not live?"
At first is was a tingling at the extremities,
like a foot that had been asleep,
then a shivering along her veins,
both pleasure and pain,
an aching, a pulsing akin to desire,
and finally after so much time
the courage simply
to leave.
___________________________________
painting by Malcolm Deeley
Problem Child, A Teacher's Notes
by Sandra Lindow
Born to a depressive, alcoholic mother,
a discarded seed growing among stones,
he was raped at seven by mom's weedy boyfriend,
and continued stunted, stalked by anger
and recurring depression. Now six moves later,
he's diagnosed with fetal alcohol, schizophrenia,
attention deficit and post traumatic stress disorder.
His pallor speaks of sunless years of rooms.
Still, I'd seen some improvement --
a healthy branching, the hint of symmetry
until a squeaky green psychiatrist
took him off his meds.
In this managed care garden
tending him is expensive
and little fruit's expected in return.
Medication "holiday" needed, she said.
But now he decorates himself
with paper flowers of delusion:
how he's spent his college !?! money
on a taxidermied cheetah,
how he died his hair last weekend
with Rootin' Tootin' Raspberry Koolaid
for freak !?! show night at church
and how his baby daughter is sick
and he needs to go home to take care of her.
He sits near me staring nowhere,
rangy and odd as an abandoned Ficus.
Every sound and movement distract him.
A fifteen year old in a fourth grade book,
he reads, like static radio, in little bits and jerks,
loses place, starts over, finally gives up in despair,
tells me about his girlfriend at home,
stares at his fingers and smiles, shaking his head,
"Love hurts," he says, "love hurts".
by Sandra Lindow
Born to a depressive, alcoholic mother,
a discarded seed growing among stones,
he was raped at seven by mom's weedy boyfriend,
and continued stunted, stalked by anger
and recurring depression. Now six moves later,
he's diagnosed with fetal alcohol, schizophrenia,
attention deficit and post traumatic stress disorder.
His pallor speaks of sunless years of rooms.
Still, I'd seen some improvement --
a healthy branching, the hint of symmetry
until a squeaky green psychiatrist
took him off his meds.
In this managed care garden
tending him is expensive
and little fruit's expected in return.
Medication "holiday" needed, she said.
But now he decorates himself
with paper flowers of delusion:
how he's spent his college !?! money
on a taxidermied cheetah,
how he died his hair last weekend
with Rootin' Tootin' Raspberry Koolaid
for freak !?! show night at church
and how his baby daughter is sick
and he needs to go home to take care of her.
He sits near me staring nowhere,
rangy and odd as an abandoned Ficus.
Every sound and movement distract him.
A fifteen year old in a fourth grade book,
he reads, like static radio, in little bits and jerks,
loses place, starts over, finally gives up in despair,
tells me about his girlfriend at home,
stares at his fingers and smiles, shaking his head,
"Love hurts," he says, "love hurts".
When Her Lost Children Returned
by Sandra Lindow
She gathered their mouths and fingers,
Entwining them like flowers in her hair.
When her lost children returned,
She wove their sweet faces into a cloak
That sat easily on her shoulders.
When her lost children returned,
She greeted them saying,
"You were lost; now you're found.
You were hidden, now you're home free.
You were a dark spot in my mind's eye;
Now you stand before me,
The teary-eyed children incarnate
That once were me.
Shape up; blow your noses; wash your faces;
Jump into my mouth.
Now that I've reclaimed you,
There's much to do and be".
by Sandra Lindow
She gathered their mouths and fingers,
Entwining them like flowers in her hair.
When her lost children returned,
She wove their sweet faces into a cloak
That sat easily on her shoulders.
When her lost children returned,
She greeted them saying,
"You were lost; now you're found.
You were hidden, now you're home free.
You were a dark spot in my mind's eye;
Now you stand before me,
The teary-eyed children incarnate
That once were me.
Shape up; blow your noses; wash your faces;
Jump into my mouth.
Now that I've reclaimed you,
There's much to do and be".
Fenrir by Malcolm Deeley
Grey dog, anger-eyed, wolf to those he tore and maimed, frightening agent of woman's revenge, they say he was dragged down bloody
in the end, but there are days when a red mist is on the mountainside, and no one will walk there then. Simple, noble hearts are twisted
in the company of hate. So it was with Fenrir, house dog made demon. He will crouch in dreams, and run the dark avenues, seeking
those who lust for hurt. Fear, don't fear. Stand, don't run. Still your hand, before a cruelty will send him pounding, rending, to you.
Grey dog, anger-eyed, wolf to those he tore and maimed, frightening agent of woman's revenge, they say he was dragged down bloody
in the end, but there are days when a red mist is on the mountainside, and no one will walk there then. Simple, noble hearts are twisted
in the company of hate. So it was with Fenrir, house dog made demon. He will crouch in dreams, and run the dark avenues, seeking
those who lust for hurt. Fear, don't fear. Stand, don't run. Still your hand, before a cruelty will send him pounding, rending, to you.
"Spirit of Fenrir" by Marge Simon
| __________________________________________________________________________________________ We thank the contributors of this poetry and art; please respect their copyrights, and do not reproduce or distribute any works that appear on these pages without permission __________________________________________________________________________________________ |
Marge Simon freelances as a writer-poet-illustrator for genre and mainstream publications.
She has illustrated three Bram Stoker Award collections. Her self-illustrated poetry collection
Artist of Antithesis was a Bram Stoker Award finalist in 2004. Marge is former president of
the Science Fiction Poetry Association. She currently serves as editor of Star*Line. For more
information, please visit her website at: http://hometown.aol.com/margsimon.
She has illustrated three Bram Stoker Award collections. Her self-illustrated poetry collection
Artist of Antithesis was a Bram Stoker Award finalist in 2004. Marge is former president of
the Science Fiction Poetry Association. She currently serves as editor of Star*Line. For more
information, please visit her website at: http://hometown.aol.com/margsimon.
Sandra Lindow, officially past her 57th birthday, takes the responsibilities of apprentice cronehood seriously.
She has won numerous awards for her poetry, and over the last twenty-five years her work has appeared in a
wide array of online and printed magazines and anthologies. She has published five chapbooks of poetry,
including Heroic Housewife, which was named the best poetry collection published by a Wisconsin writer in
1990. In June of 2006 she retired after twenty-five years as a reading specialist in a treatment center for
emotionally disturbed adolescents. Presently she is teaching Remedial English part-time at University of
Wisconsin-Stout. Please visit her website at: www.wfop.org/poets/lindowsa.html.
She has won numerous awards for her poetry, and over the last twenty-five years her work has appeared in a
wide array of online and printed magazines and anthologies. She has published five chapbooks of poetry,
including Heroic Housewife, which was named the best poetry collection published by a Wisconsin writer in
1990. In June of 2006 she retired after twenty-five years as a reading specialist in a treatment center for
emotionally disturbed adolescents. Presently she is teaching Remedial English part-time at University of
Wisconsin-Stout. Please visit her website at: www.wfop.org/poets/lindowsa.html.
| _________________________________________________________________________________________ Visit Community Action Stops Abuse |
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