September 4: Philip Hasouris and Frank Miller Feature
Stone Soup Poetry meets from 8-10 p.m. every Monday at the Out of The Blue Art Gallery (located on 106 Prospect Street in Cambridge) with an open mike sign-up at 7:30 p.m. On September 4th, Stone Soup welcomes Philip Hasouris and Frank Miller, the hosts of the prestigious Brockton Library Poetry Series.
Philip Hasouris has been writing for many years. Like most poets, he began unsure of his words. kept them hidden in notebooks, draws, closets, always in the back of his mind. started reading publicly and eventually people started listening. since then, he has taken every opportunity to share the words.
Born in Scotland and educated both there and in the U.S., Frank Miller now works in sales. "I started writing almost seven years ago and, despite the pleas of the public, continue to do so. If there is anything to interest you it will be found in the poetry. My life certainly would not be entertaining enough to warrant a second glance."
Old Man In The Mountain
Caitlin my flesh looks around
anticipates, eyes wide,
tell her we are going to see
"The old man in the mountain"
rock face wall
with his jutted jaw
cheeks smooth as glass years slide off
eyes hold wise
Family walks path
We are young, strong...
Caitlin stops short our chain reaction tumble
points "Is that him'?"
Is that the old man in the mountain"?
Sandals under black socks rise over
vein blue water rush
sparse gravel hair,
his gate rusted.
Her words echo over cavernous walls
a pebble thrown into stream of our conscience
rippling "is that him"
our nervous smiles
our lips pout shhhh.
to her innocence.
Old man stone faced.
We recall old man at family gathering
remember when we were immortal.
My hand writes this message in my bottled up memories
older in my travels
shakier in my sorrow.
The old man slid off his mountain
surrendering rock face in the mourning of his mortality
I look in my daughters eyes and see his wisdom.
MEMORIAL DAY, 2002
Main Street resigns becomes State Route 9,
slides downhill past St. Mary's cemetery.
Awkward groups stand uneasy at their graves;
children fidget, wisely knowing
there is nothing there.
Father I remember you would have walked away
and left her if you could. The body
in which she lived was dead and the life
in which you dwelled was done.
You did not linger at the site,
had no sign engraved to mark the ending road
and did not return to see if grass grew sweet
above her head.
I remember when I found
the picture frames you packed away;
a silver filigree which once
had held the past; now boned
they wait the future empty.
Flags hang limp on Main Street.
The day sags beneath the weight
of all the other days. The sky cracks
then cracks again. The road sheens-
slick with memory,
and blood warm rain
Click here to visit the home page for the Brockton Library Poetry Series.