Since 1996 Volume XXII


Thylias Moss is a multiracial maker of poems, in any form necessary with fourteen books in print. "Although many of Moss’s poems discuss race and gender, explains scholar Langdon Hammer, “her poetry makes such facts of identity seem unfamiliar, their meanings not to be predicted, unavailable to the naked eye.”  In fact, Moss’ paternal grandfather was an immigrant from India and half-Caucasian, her father half Native American, and her mother Black; and she has never felt a need to define herself by race. Her work in the 2018-2019 Winter Edition of PoetryMagazine.com is a selection of upcoming poems in her new collection: Shawsheen Memorial Broom Society. Moss is sixty-four years old and in love for the first time in her life with another poet, frequently her collaborator, Mr. Bob Holman, age seventy. Close friends for thirty years, much closer since her divorce in 2013, she often does not know for sure just which one of them wrote which line, but that does not matter at all. He is her thing and she is his thing after so many years of knowing each other. In the photo, she wears his hat. The recipient of numerous awards, including a MacArthur Genius Fellowship, this is Thylias Moss’ favorite collection of poems because they are about him or are collaborations with him.
(Sometimes even the dreariness  of being here
Seems luminous)

This parking lot has no right to seem so
Deceptively bright as if
No suffering, no panic (DJ) anywhere in any world

That also contains
Though hardly my pleasure

Repo Harmony
An attempt to take back what
Has been given honestly

Thunderbolt raffles “rafflesia”
Java, Java, Java man made bouquets of rotting flesh
Hardly real man only
Controversy ever proven
Instinks born in the flower a pot of stinking 
Flesh, five petals corresponding roughly
To five senses of people, these would have easily 
Repelled Goldilocks “Rafflesia arnoldii” 39 inches of
Odiferous pleasure traps, harpoons of
Stank aromas
3, 4 shut the doors “little shop of horrors”
Growth spurt before anyone swallows liverwurst
And the whale—bowfin skewed out of whack
Regurgitates foul disciple on Shawsheen Shores overrun 
With flies and their amazing compound eyes on
Official state flower of Indonesia, oh what beautiful offal, so
So so many names for my feelings flesh of “Rafflesia” served
By the precious ounce, corpse flower, bouquet 
For corpse bride 

I always liked idea of butter flying, what I saw 
Beyond mere cyclone, in 1939 wizard of Oz’ed
Butter in churns inverted cyclones themselves
Taking off like rockets
Even Dorothy didn’t notice “rafflesia”
In the garden where she slept inside such flowers
Over so many rainbows cut up (by butterfly pollination) 
Halloween candy possibilities 
all of them owing something
To “rafflesia”
And raffles
On this day so sunny I have to think of
Rainbows I experience only in your
Army of arms 

not a single flower 
Manages to grow on this property that deters 
And condemns growth, only what flourishes in asphalt
Still fresh, almost sticky as mucus had to be before a slue 
Of failed inseminations in which I was a corpse bride, truly,
in marriage, till death do us part, I was killed by
Lack of fulfillment in marriage; indeed, 
beauty  never clanged there; I 
have no “Thing” 
but the “Thing” itself

and the breath, the air that 
brushes your wrinkles, thoroughly tongued 
awakenings of flying  jazzy Things: 
cyclones and pastry bags

27th Birthday Nemo Shawsheen Song

Nemo with his glass window eye, even
More compelling than  Peter Falk’s right one, glassy
As tonic cavorting in glassy gin and tonic rink

Missing nothing, all the way from Michigan
To Ansted, West Virginia, 

where suns and sons set preparing to Rise come 

glass eye

into prisms, each prism seeing

What light is made of, so many

Dizzying colors, all of them in instruments
Of scientists at the heart of geological musics
Bituminous coal singing loudly, your fiesta of

Engines hard to beat up Gauley Mountain 
You posing on New River Gorge Bridge, you 
already ascending, clouds touching you becoming
Wings when 

your prisms capture every sunset
Colors dream up, for you are Orange Ambition
And Culmination, source of sunset on that bridge 
Elevator to compact heaven
Streaking through your doors, 

even driver 
Impressed by views only possible with you.

Shawsheen Blue Singularity Coming

Clouds have formed a ring around
A hole in the sky.

Blue hole in the sky will soon become a poem
Or something similar as color collects in Singularity, 
My blue-eyed Thing, dual blue sockets 
Your eyes, black sockets when Blue possibilities 
Are screwed in, some pain, as everything gathers 
—singular river— crinkled to take up 
less space, fold 
And even more fits, what hangs out, just 
trim off, slash with sonic screwdriver as these 
become more popular in 
Incredible gravitational attraction, so tight and fast, no 
Particles or electromagnetic radiation escapes, 
hundreds of lassos pull you into 

my event horizons, slight bruising 
Accounts for Blue as true as your eyes, same spectrum, 
“Drum Roll please”:  

as you squeeze me as an ideal blackbody curved
In this rodeo riding space time with you, 
your Logan sapphire eyes:
Temperature billionths of a 
Kelvin of our prayerful stellar mass, 
we are another 

Perfect leg of Pisces constellation 
hot for conflagration of
This Love you shy away from 

at times

your light caught here, probably forever 
To shine it will have to flow wavily  through me, effort 
accumulates, smoke-smiles
In our burning stellar mass, impossible 
to observe, “US”-ness

Beyond the merely theoretical, surrounded 
by brightness, unbelievable intensity
Just from a first deep kiss deeply embedded 
in the “no-space”between us, 
Nothing “nano” here!

Not even escape velocity, this black hole rotates 
and as it circles on 
a lathe of sky, swallows 
even rainbows in that region, becoming speckled here 
and there with gold flakes  in your eyes, Golden sparks livening  
up your  blueskied eyes,
Driver  especial, “we romp and roll 
And sweat” —oh that unlikely heat: the two of us:
Our  Own  Sing (u back and forth to me & you) in which
Somehow you are still able to see “US-ness” tingling and tonguing 
the way teens do with nothing on us, you 
entering your Blue, cool seventies, 
and entering me, colorful comet
Knitting needle and scholastic pointer, fixing 
your attention on me, 
New “Giggly Childe” Lifetime Constellation  

just  couple of light years, the time it takes 
your gaze to travel all of me until I want you to take the lead 
and I will follow super- and subra-
Sonically, Looking the way you love for me to look when I am 
looking at you and Loving what I see more and more-same 
as what happens when you take the lead as no one else
Ever can, you evrso present and surrounding me, that 
whispered ring of clouds, tickles and Shawsheened Springs 
of your wonderful scratchy beard and mustache that cause orgasms 

just from Kissing you, and the way the hairs feel on my tongue as  
I really am the Big Mama instantly, dual 
Personality as you take me hard 

yet I want you to take me even harder in this singularity,
Over and in and under and through me as I desire both of us taking cues:

Time for as much  Forever remains for “Us-ness” to claim

The Shawsheen  Password is Ecru Nemo

To you: here’s your colon screening screaming:
Raw ecru thoughts abolishing sense and census
While I am in the quirks and bad poetry
Quick Sand
And little lambs eat ivy covered towering over
Delinquent judgments unbleached, out
Of reach, grease, and Clabber accoutrements 

And realizing that:
I may as well be both throwing and 
dodging sharpened
stainless steel knives, as

This circus might just be here to 
stay, pinned 
to all those 
Colorful wheels to add flavored flair to 
those aluminum Xmas trees
Longing to be burnt baby brunettes

And dreams. Sweet of course.

Sung by and with the Wichita Lineman, who is still on the line
In the glen, narrow secluded valley where 
I too need a small vacation, preferably with you, for 
I do need you, maybe more than want you though 
I don’t see how that is possible: 
“want” and “need” keep trading places, and both 

are excellent, and walkways to re-fine-Eries —though 
there is no way to make you better, finer, maybe on 
that small vacation where I can hear your voice again 

unless it is programmed to speak only the gibberish that 
I am somehow interfering with and complicating your life 
when seems to me that Love is required for all time. Even 
mine for you.

Seems that it is advent now of morning, must be
since I am practically mourning a loss 
to slip through my hands
gold flecked sand of you 

after making contact in Wichita aircraft production hub, that
 “Air Capital of the World” 
but not without you in it, my propeller head spinning 
inhabited since 3000 BC, solving the mystery date mystery 
codex trunk of a tree, 

and we all know “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” or thereabouts:
Tree trunk source of propellor blades,  a bouquet  of surf boards 
and I am your gidget again, for all time,  
this time thanks to Wichita Kisses type b and that 
revolving  “B” line of active propellers  connecting us 
with  the venue that is not hollow but is full 
Of heart-felt poe-Trees lining banks of Shawsheen River gold
flecks of you keeping the banks solvent, both of them, and 
that watery road between them, icy in  solitudes like winter 
winners and then Nemo skates on strength of 

pure memories

fortified with you. Always. No better advantage 
than having you and Nemo’s engine chirping forever lucky 
fiesta Shawsheen River barge 
puffing orange blooming bouquets kissing misty air craft landing
Here and here. 

All poems are Copyright ©Thylias Moss from Shawsheen Memorial Broom Society

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Mary Barnet


Grace Cavalieri

Joan Gelfand

Janet Brennan