Marly Youmans is the author of fourteen books of poetry and fiction. Her latest poetry collection is The Book of the Red King, following the narrative of a transforming Fool, a mysterious Red King, and the ethereal Precious Wentletrap (Montreal: Phoenicia Publishing, 2019.) Her latest novel is Charis in the World of Wonders.
The axe and maul and splitting of the wood; The climbing up stone stairs above the house; The climbing down stone stairs below the house; The cutting of sasanqua blooms on the ridge; The standing straightly, shoulders back and down; The slanting path and vegetable plots; The clacking of the big 4-harness loom. Her solar…
Once Emma knew someone who thought it funny that she had no brothers or sisters. Having grown up with many siblings herself, the woman liked to say that Emma must have been awfully spoiled when she was little. Because to be an only child meant to be spoiled. It was inevitable. Somehow she never realized…
At the corner of Church and Fair, in rain she pauses, cool in the invisible and rainless room below her umbrella… The low, wide Japanese tree’s elegant. Its salmon maple leaves are rained to red, Its splay of spindles slicked to jet by rain… Its bonfire burns the rain, and all the world Seems thirsty-eyed…
A child dancing in rain, Glimpsed somewhere in Nigeria… And all the drops contain The modest area And quick and lithe Of limb, this boy, Emblem of joy, Graceful and blithe As if each precious drop Could be a tiny, godly glass Repeating without stop The shapes that whirl and pass: In lieu of…
People say there are no longer any ogres left in the world, but it is not true. I have a friend in a distant country who was afflicted by one for some years. Bran had amassed a great collection of historical and artistic material on behalf of his nation and was famous for his work…
“It’s hard sometimes not to measure by the world’s ruler.” I can still hear Miss Lila’s voice saying those words, though I can’t remember now if she spoke about the need to avoid measuring by the world’s measures, to turn away from the things that the world values—that would have been like her—or whether she…
Once I had a friend with a rollicking head of hair and shining eyes and an air of mischief that came from the turned-up nose and the near-laughter look on her face. Maeve saw no reason not to love and be loved, and she once confided in me that she had been pregnant seven times…
That little place—it burned in May this year, Touched, torched by riot flames in the city… What city? Could be any city now; It doesn’t matter which or where. They’re all Debris and fatwood meant to kindle fire. That little place—familiar, homely, worn. You sent a video of girls at play In spars and ashes…
I am with my love in La Colombina, a room with forty narrow windows and a stained glass spine to the ceiling and calligraphic iron scribbles for roof support. The sea stands still beyond hillsides of innumerable houses, folded and tucked shapes of plaster and painted tin. A seagull waits at the open window beside…
I knew him long ago—even at first, I sensed that he was the center of his world, and that he expected all good things to come to him. You see, he made stories out of words, and he knew what was supposed to happen. You were to happen to him. You were to come to…