Poetry Submission (test run)
Saturday, January 31, 2009 2:35 PM
From: 
"Natasha A. Martin" <kajmahkah@yahoo.com>
To: 
"Jenn Burgoyne" <jennburgoyne@aol.com>, "Jacob Hight" <celebrate_life4ever@hotmail.com>, "Molly McNew" <mollymcnew@gmail.com>, "Malobi Sinha" <malobi_sinha@hotmail.com>
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N. Andreil Martin 
XXXX Here Avenue 
City, State, Country (if applicable) Zip Code 
Email: here@thisplace.com 
  
Bio: N. Andreil Martin lives in Saint Louis. She has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing from Webster University. Ms. Martin has been previously published in The Ampersand and Green Fuse. She writes poetry, novels, long short stories, one-acts and is often afflicted with the disease of procrastination. 
  
Thoughts of a Black Woman While Shopping at Soulard 
  
This ain’t a quaint poem about the lovely 
trip I had one hot day in August, shopping 
at Soulard, nibbling on hot funnel cakes 
and sipping fresh squeezed lemonade, strolling 
past a man playing the violin that wished 
pennies, dimes, and dollars were like the many beads 
of sweat rolling down his face.- Hearing some man’s 
kids complain about the smells and “why can’t we 
go to Schnucks’ where it’s cool and there are no flies?” 
It’s not about haggling with some farmer 
over strawberries, which are sweet but for 3 
bucks a pound is too much, that’ll mold over 
by the next day in your fridge.- Seeing pole beans 
for the first time and asking one black woman, 
and one white, how to cook them, then taking the 
  
black woman’s advice. No, this is a poem 
’bout what I thought while frowning at some limp greens: 
  
How can we put a price on something so… 
priceless as food or that violin man’s 
music, something that everybody needs?- 
Something so valuable that it becomes 
invaluable. Like trading your time for 
money, sex, life, love. Amenities that 
are nothing without us to make it so. 

Le rêve du Bel Homme (Dream of the Beautiful Man) 
  
Wednesday, I went to a café to buy a cream 
filled croissant drizzled with chocolate. 
And I caught a glimpse of the baker, smiled, 
waved good-bye and went on my way. 
  
That night I dreamt of a man, 
portly in size, 
belly bared, dimpled only by his navel, 
round, perfection in diameter and size 
like the moon, pale and full, 
soft like the touch of moonlight 
on the wings of a moth in flight, 
and it slowly rising then falling with life and breath. 
He was asleep, in his own dreams, 
bare of sheets or clothes on a bed of clouds, 
with wind lathing gently over his body. 
I looked upon his face, perfection, 
I had never seen a face so beautiful 
and I climbed in beside him, 
careful not to disturb his rest, 
lay my head on shoulder, 
listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat 
as if it could make me closer to him. 
I curled my body around his belly 
like a black corona wound round the moon, 
my dark skin against the pale of his. 
He took a deep breath, a sound of contentment, 
and his hand rested on the curvature of my neck, 
stroked me gently, as if to waylay all my fears. 
And I purred. Ah, perfection! bliss, 
with my body wrapped around his. 

How Carl Seeger, 26, Met the Blues 
  
Every night, a girl, 
no more than 17, 
would walk into the bar, 
this old rundown bar 
that played nothing but 
the blues. She’d sway side to 
side, her back arched, head 
thrown back, neck exposed, 
the neon glow of the 
bar sign staining her face. 
Her eyes staring up at the 
ceiling, tears shining in 
them, new as the youth she had, 
but her eyes old as the cigarette 
smoke, stale, hazing about the place. 
Every night she’d sway to 
the blues as if she lived 
long enough on earth to 
know what even I don’t know ’bout 
the crying John Lee Hooker, 
Buddy Guy, and King guitar’d to. 
But she move like she 
got a right to, with tears 
that she never cried to. Every night. 
So, one night I walked up to her, 
put a hand on the small of her 
back, wrapped my arms around 
her waist. Her hands found home 
on my shoulders and her eyes closed, 
her head tipped forward, rest 
under my chin. And we 
swayed, to the blues 
falling down her cheeks 
from her eyes. I felt the hot sting 
of them on my throat and a sob from her lips. 
All I could do was sway with her, 
side to side to the blues. I said 
what’s wrong to make 
your pretty brown eyes cry? 
She shook her head, 
said ain’t nothing you can do 
to fix it. I held her tighter 
and never let go. 
We let the blues sing us home. 

Brevity of Love, After Hölderlin 
  
Why are you so cold? Do you no longer love me 
the way you once did?- In bed, after we were spent, 
murmuring sweet words of dreams, 
and reminiscing the ways I made you sing? 
  
As my bliss is now, so my own song was, dying in the red of the evening sun. 
Now that night has come, my world is cold, 
the moon is blackened 
and the stars waver incessantly before my eyes. 
  
            -tr. N. Andreil Martin 
  
German: Die Kürze by Friedrich Hölderlin 
  
»Warum bist du so kurz? liebst du, wie vormals, denn 
  »Nun nicht mehr den Gesang? fandst du, als Jüngling, doch, 
    »In den Tagen der Hoffnung, 
      »Wenn du sangest, das Ende nie! 
  
Wie mein Glük, ist mein Lied. - Willst du im Abendroth 
  Froh dich baden? hinweg ists! und die Erd' ist kalt, 
    Und der Vogel der Nacht schwirrt 
      Unbequem vor das Auge dir.

They Say, After Baron 
  
They say 
human blood 
enriches the soil, 
  
that the flayed backs, 
indigo-ed hands and strange fruit 
hanging from strong branches, 
and songs, that kept time 
with tears and hidden drums, 
gave American soil its fat. 
  
And this is true. 
but: 
  
This blood has curdled. 
It smolders, 
like the acid 
used for printing 
on the backs of every dollar bill. 
  
                                         -tr. by N. Andreil Martin 
  
Haitian Creole: Yo Di by Suze Baron 
  
Yo di 
san kretyen 
enrichi 
latè
Si sete vre
si sete vre
mezanmi
ala diri
pitimi
ak mayi
ki ta genyen
lan peyi
D'Ayiti.