Eight Poems | Linda Chown


Sometimes I feel like I'm ageing, 
backwards, i don't know 
how we can go forth
when we're sinking so fast
under malevolent ignorance
And spring is shining so
When I think of Spain,
which I do in my sleep,  in my dreams,  in my everywhere,
I see women in black all clean
with ardent faces and a smile
below all that plain pain 
I hear Spain, their tongue-driven voices
rambunctiously them.
Please dear humanity
Do not let them be splayed and
Agonized like death clouds again.


As of now that rising sound 
Below my neck reminds me of Baku,
And Boris my remote cousin. It is that
I’m not breathing like I should be.
It is like it happens apart from me.
I stare and listen hard to that whine.
It’s as though I’m carrying Geronimo 
up high on CaveFighters Hill.
Only the lonely would complain 
and only the lonely will remain 
here in a vast vat of love
of understanding and profundity,
a way to live for you and me.
Stay away from green eggs 
and purple devastation.
Don’t, like a cavalier, give your 
heart away to the hawks.
As Katherine says in The English Patient 
the “heart is an organ of fire.”
Be sure to keep that organ
with another: to cast your lightning 
into each other’s excited airs.

Some Times

Inspired by The Rolling Stones

You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime you find
You get what you need

It’s like I don’t write a poem to explode out 
It’s like I don’t write a poem to complain in
It’s like when I start to hear the call to write
I start to float it’s like to float inconspicuous 
It’s like pieces of time and what’s mine join 
In a moment of homeostasis overtime 
It’s like poetry is a sublime 
coming together.  Feast and famine 
Holding place in this oneness 
A permanent addition like a mission 
Which we can make when pieces of time 
And what’s mine align in homeostasis sublime
To be ours for hours making such oneness rhyme.

How Sarah Saw to Herself

Miroslava Panayotava
digital art
at night in a quiet room
she sank deep into the lights of dreaming, 
to hold on to what she was 
finding out about seeing colors,
nuances shaping up in the night. 
Her always wide eyes. Wheezes
knocking at the doors of her chest 
like shutters flapping in a Texas wind.
The decisive whack of wood.

Even when nobody heard her 
hear to say the fabric of what 
she was coming to know to think,
When she was all locked up little 
in those taffeta clothes, tiny buttons and plackets,
tight around her. When she was bending 
her toes around, wriggling them, just to tell 
how she saw to herself. To remember the smooth spots 
that she knew she knew by heart
but only when she was alone 
those times fitting into herself 
while she was in the corner 
coming to settle into herself.

Just knowing how she was
in that light of hers darkly,
paddling the peeling moments like a sailor
and starching the intricate fibers of memory 
with near collarbone precision.
Her voice a feather of tulips in the morning.

There Came This Big Rush

So when and if then,
there came this big rush, 
a rash of factors 
which took you back to
a giant shadow of memory
on the waterfront, 
California light falling 
and breathing in, then,
it was when history was, 
seemingly sublime, 
in the kind of closeness
we would die for, then, 
but it was happening, here,  
now longshoremen big armed 
talking like veteran labor leaders. 
Tillie Olson said a Mrs. Dalloway idea,
pondering soft. It was all bodies 
and more, beyond the blue line, blessed.
It was people living, bulging themselves.
In mass, together, out loud voluptuous:
It was real life warm out of the factory
lasting like Sunday hotcakes.

The Breath of my Blood

These two years  
Have thickened me, left me bewildered, 
High and dry as the debris in an elephant’s eye, 
Ringing unanswered bells in white hell halls.  
How I wanted to run again  
And to seem determined.  
How the breath of my blood  
Stiffened and I came to 
Look nice without my old exotic,  
That fire in a thin emphatic face,   
Those lingering lips and know it all eyes, 
How my feet grow restlessly stiff  
How I sleep with oxygen  
How I have gotten permanently 
Sick dramatically and unrecoverably smitten 

It Was He Who Knew

It would be Blake who knew 
It was the body which made us fair,  
More than stray stone bullets. 
His world was so physical 
His inner light transfused matter 
Into a moan of joy rushing in  
To the plenty of us all so physical 
That each petal of our being 
Sang itself way before Whitman 
Blake grew the Cartesian split into harmony. 
He made us big again, 
Big in our girth and our worth. 

He would take the full nine yards of us:  
“You never know what is enough  
unless you know what is more than enough,” he dared.  
And he feasted and saturated and wept sublime  
to encounter what he saw with a naked burly view. 

His path was not to split body and soul. 
Nay, he wept the veins and nerves whole.

The Reunion of the Soul and Body
William Blake, 1813

The cloudy shores of today

If life is now more of an adverb,
Participles all stuck in the sun,
Wrapped sticky in virus,
All we say now is how we see it
Not what, since facts died with Trump
So verily how we find each other is the final 
Dusty piece to play for dessert each to each 
It’s Kafka au lait in the cloudy shores of today.

©2021 Linda Chown
All rights reserved


Be inspired… Be creative… Be peace… Be

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