© 2018 Jo Page

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October 12, 2012

--for Tadeusz Borowski (1922-51), author of Ladies and Gentlemen, This Way for the Gas


Such innocence in apples, peeled—

pale, pock-marked, but ominous.

Pale, peeled apples not the orange excess of autumn;

Instead--shorn heads, bald and pocked,

the shorn heads of those in camps--

shorn of breath, later. (I am

remembering the Polish writer

and camp survivor, the suicide author.)

All I am doing is making...

October 11, 2012

Okay, that post title sounds like an episode from Doctor Who. Or do I just create opportunities to allude to Doctor Who? Worse, am I using Doctor Who to lure unsuspecting  readers into reading poetry?
Of course not. 

So, I found a great book at a good house sale on Saturday. All those college/grad school poets under one cover: Hopkins and Frost, Auden and Eliot, cummings and Roethke. The modern p...

October 2, 2012

With Frost, it’s all about frost. He’s got

a crop to harvest. That’s what it seems like.

I don’t mind that he’s a curmudgeon. I heard

he was a bad father. Who knows what kind of husband?

I only know him as a poet, a swinger of birches—used to be, anyway.

I know him as somebody who outwalked the furthest city lights,

as one acquainted with the night. And so on.

He didn’t know if the world would end in fir...

September 8, 2012

The wind blew hot today; it blew my skirt—

it whipped my skirt, but not as at Les Baux.

Back then the denim flapped a furious code

into the Val d’Enfer, those craggy

hills, a giant’s rotted teeth.

Linnea stood atop the highest battlement

nearly windborne,

all of fifteen.

The wind blew hot in

Bezier and we slept naked

on the floor, ignorant of scorpions,

me filled with local wine.

We’d spent the day at the m...

August 28, 2012

Takes longer to write a sonnet than it does to make the great, green elixir......and longer still to savor a plate of it on fettucine.....




The basil—green, fresh-washed and dried,

The oil virgin to the core,

Garlic and cheese, both well-applied

Are all you need and nothing more.



That is, unless you want it more enriching

with toasted and chopped-fine pignoli.

Add butter, softened—so bewitching--


August 14, 2012

The sunflowers wave their heads around like girls and boys
with unkempt hair and short attention spans.
'look, here! look, there!' they say,
as if anyone is listening.
They are unattended, like children
at a Grown-ups party, left to themselves, and unruly. 

The Grown-ups are off discussing the serious work
of Politicians and the new Book Someone has written.
Someone is important and has won some...

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I'm a writer, yoga teacher, Lutheran pastor, and music nerd living in New York. I find a feast in daily living - most days, anyway - and write about it here. 

Finalist for the 2017 Chautauqua Prize!
The frank and funny story of a church-geek girl who spent twenty years in the ecclesiastical trenches as a Lutheran pastor, preaching weekly words of hope she wasn’t sure she even believed.