epilogue :









I imagined tenderness
sweat and agony
the new pain of straddling
another destiny
and the roar
of monsters chained
at the end
of the last cavern where there are only bones
a fable of conquest
with ample evidence that it did not appease
that mythic hunger
but required instead a surrender
far more ultimate in terms

I glimpsed horizons
of need and canons
the knocking
of a breeze off the ocean
a tide of admissions
wet as envelopes
seals and confessions
a cursive front
a borne rhythm on and on
the easy lapping of War ships
when there is no enemy
and the end, the end
I longed for

I wrote backwards
an enduring alphabet laid
out to dry, as fitting
on a short line
a fleet of armies and arms
wanting to hear your last serenade
a flag on the island
in the wind, what was only natural
but the jungle is sold
and the last wildness is in your eyes
still I wish I could meet you again now
for the first time
and explain everything from the beginning

Copyright © 2016 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

London :









London was an idea, or an eye
a stone thrown that could sink no deeper
a jar without a lid, a sound out of the speaker

beyond the bridge of murky sea-crossed mosaics
a spine bent back with words half-read
Jimmy’s strings you could not follow, a metronome of something lead

You and I outside in an English garden
a taste you told everyone was only earl grey and cream
a peak fare to the next junction, the blue eggshells of something broken free

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

the third story apartment :








my days like wooden matches within strike
pressed for moments, inciting fire by hand
fingertips to every surface flintlike
letters now tinder sparked from my inkstand
penned to entertain all foraging eyes
that graze upon a world of sights perceived
open, as is pleasant to imagine
them often, open, to contest and prize
effulgent fates that glow and are believed
to be bright, though suit a dream wherein

music through the window came at once to
fill airy corners of successive rooms
where memorizing the floorboard’s sinew
we fell out of step to our tuned heirlooms
for a verse we were relieved to forget
until melody found our reaching ears
open, as is very pleasant to keep
them often, open, for reminding yet
now without child’s strain to cement that hears
echoes through walls, isolating the deep

nuances on a tabletop resting
where sunlight is smoking when we awake
from dreaming to find our fingers testing
phrases we constructed before daybreak
building stories on our youth’s hammering
through connecting doors to architect’s play
open, left open, as is pleasant to
them often, ajar while all clamoring
intelligent arrangements steal away
home, though it was our homeless words we knew

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

MARCUS (mumford)


a radio toothache, hours were not sailboats
mind spinning, trying to brush something off
July got caught under a rudder of ghosts
hours were not parachutes or goalposts lost
we gave them a chance to land on the cross
for a song to mark us then and mark us now
a stain in your cheek with all the old gloss
to one thing we constantly took on the brow
as gentlemen of the road always allow
on mint occasions, a sonnet echo
for a song to Marcus then and Marcus now
enameled moments stole a page although
I’d find the past written all over your face
no bookmark needed, I’d remember the place

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

springtime :


the answers changed when Jacarandas turned
away to light crosshairs tied back with a ribbon
I set aside Japanese astronauts
if rust was imagined, that barn door bang notion
a stab in the dark, I had no ghost in the hall
no Poseidon seaweed, No Earthly Good reason
no filament stars, no hiccup dandelions
a stayed course of stars, of emperor butterflies

of history and hamartia basking
against stolen observations from Macallan
to Macchiato, the great sunrise shot
I was still hoping to tip the cross-fade scales and
ask you in the Springtime to sail your ghost of hymns
even though there are no seasons in Hawaii
your ocean of milkweed and postcards make me question
handwriting in blue ink everywhere, salt, and space

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

often we are off:









offbeat, offkey, often we are off to see
dirt cheap wizards behind neon signs
in flickering electric memory
in polka-dot colors, chromatic designs
outside a chorus of whizzing rhymes
we find ourselves without a home
without the words we used to use
we find ourselves quite free to roam
on brick-road metaphors, if we choose
without very much at all to lose
from empty pockets of childhood bliss
with ruby shoes along strange terrain
where we lose ourselves in a poppy kiss
consulting exposed histories in the rain
to sing along, a horse without a tether
in a wonderful land of because, because
we can meet, I swear, whatever the weather
we can meet by the music of whatever once was

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

dear december 2014 (tall stars and sparkling trees)

Dear mountain mosquito melody-
Dear spongy expiring peppermint tea cake-
Dear last day of the year-
Dear statements like pages in a magazine you might flip through-
Dear December 2014-

The day after Christmas is all tags and names and half written lists strewn across the table with some thick coil or ribbon untied in every corner of your heart and mind. I try to bundle the year- to pack up the pile of mornings- to close the box on a solid idea I can stamp a clear label on and send on its way. The gifts of the year are hushed, collected, burnished with past efforts and future inspirations. What you hold onto is the present.

The last day of the year ends with a country bonfire- with tall stars and sparkling trees on the side of the mountain I’ve called home for the last few years. The bright trails drifting up beyond the ceiling of stars are better than fireworks. I let the the conversation around me warm my cheeks well past three in the morning. I watch as a young man named Leif prods and shakes off sparks into the darkness. His face reminds me of a young Vincent Van Gogh. I feel good about meeting him on such a starry night. As the year closes, I am reminded that we are lucky to have each other to influence and inflame each other forward. Ezra Pound wrote in a letter to Harriet Monroe “My problem is to keep alive a certain group of advancing poets, to set the arts in their rightful place as the acknowledged guide and lamp of civilization.” I continue to hear these broad announcements that our modern years are full of darkness- but I am hopeful because I still see a light in people. It’s there. And I believe we can still help each other keep the fire alive and keep it bright.


Here is the last poem I wrote in 2014-

Epilogue of Sundays:

the home haircut of ideas, the morning was discussed
the loose wiring of ambitions, that befriender of genius
waiting on a weekend electrician for Ezra’s lamp
a cagey dawn in episodic tantrums that squarely passed

so you think you can write poetry, in your latest craze
illuminate sunsets and blasphemy and science and haze
lay bare obscurities to satisfy the erudite
out of Homer lots and home garages, romance the dendrite

with the last volt and pixel and the bright stain in your cheek
helping fireflies escape their mason jars can take the whole week
as whatever light you are chasing leaves no sign to stop
the last offer can be left open on the modern desktop



love and sparks into the darkness,

straw :









hot infant bright spark of a kindling birth
on a starlit night amidst sin on earth
in a poor pagan pinch of salty time
past a modern ritual lost in rhyme
of god’s dark decrees for a kingdom bright
for your near escape from an endless night
where you swore to abandon your wicked ways
you swore it forever on innocent days
as if inside a dream of straw and gold
we only dreamt before we grew too old
where fanatic salvation set us free
with tart knowledge from a defiant tree
in a jungle dense of mystery missed
on the face creation so feverently kissed

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

baste stitch :









december strays away, yarn to splinter
room to room, embroidery and crochet
sunlight unwinds Dante, west from winter
a decorated past, paper mâché
sugar plum out of luck, you seek and hide
rummaging to spare one crown for a king
apparitions you couldn’t pin aside
in craft drawers, while a mother is birthing
a decoupage, spools of eternity
carols, apparel, round saviours and stars
seamless in pattern, you could not pull free
from calendars that pulled a thread of scars
day after day, hand-stitched and brow-knitting
tailored, timeless and strangely befitting

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

COLIN (meloy)


the clang! of wind down American flagpoles
is the twang of victory, flapping eras of battle hymns
is the shifting of a continent by more than an inch
our unfounded fathers bickering at the unemployment office
and the country of receipts walking across the parking lot
in somebody’s pocket
on a keyring that unlocks every withheld freedom of life
and your own apartment sometimes when you are lucky
which you are, which you are, which you are
especially to feel the cold harsh bite of the wind
you are as ridiculous as a cranky infant howling
who has their whole life ahead of them
who knows nothing about presidential elections or having a lover
or cab fare or free verse or algebra or debt
who is so lucky to have no capital punishment to chew on
answers learned without
questions in a construction site requiring a hard-hat for safety reasons
whatever medicine you minister and administer
whatever gospel you determine and predetermine
whatever promises we made together to get her
skirting marginal history as if it were only his story
suspender poetry over the shoulders of Time’s castaways and cut-outs
a soundless filament waltz of progress which
is your squarefoot broom bristles
is your thumb on lightswitch replies
is voices out of hand missals, flouting maxims of relation
holiness like a kindly wrinkle from lives in the blink of an eye

the bang! of powder to make-up our lives in stages
is the slang of our ancestor’s brogue docking
is the promises at the bottom of a riverbed in the summertime
that you’ll not feel the drowning
under the record needle of haystacks in neighbouring towns
one good turn
of early morning like topsoil blown over
eardrums like canyons, open for visits, faithful to form
which you are, which you are, which you are
with patriot eyelashes like bushels of desert grass
batting a corn colored crop rolled out of beds
you are the one who is taking a bow
who is sweeping out of sight
who is weeping for wagers
or fables or morals or the nameless
who remain uncertain of their independence
or the hazards
that belong to the ground, as you stand it
whatever clover is reserved for lovers
whatever accordion shores offer more concord
whatever material is now immaterial
sunset promises you want to last forever
and a horizon that is a library of words on the shelf
untranslated, with the last of your concentration which
is a noisy prayer on the makeshift altars of victory
is the time at hand we pause to lament
is all the proof you need through the night
like someone’s name scrawled in the cement

Copyright © 2015 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·