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In its spread
Poets' Letter became Poets' Letter Magazine
Print, Poets' Letter Magazine Online, Poets'
Letter Youth Lit, Poets' Letter Fiction
and Poets' Letter Philosophia and published
hundreds and hundreds of new and emerging
authors and poets. Poets' Letter Magazine
published The Poet's Letter Poetry Anthology of
New Voices: London, 2005. Out of Poets'
Letter grew Poets' Letter Poetry Performance
Series, starting out at The Poetry Cafe, Covent
Garden in 2004 which then spread across London
that ran for a few years and, The London Poetry
Festival annually: 2005-2009 culminating into
two anthologies; London Poetry Pearl: London
Poetry Festival 2009 and Commit the
Savannah-Sunset and the Restless Sea: English
Translations of Contemporary Spanish Poetry. We
aim to, gradually, re-house the entire Poets'
Letter Archives onto The Humanion website since
so many talented authors and poets had been
published in Poets' Letter whose works should be
read. Katherine Michaud was the First Ever
Featured Poet of the Month in Poets' Letter
Magazine. Here she is. Volume
1, Issue 03, May 2004
Poets' Letter Magazine Archive
Poetry Pearl
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Poets' Letter
Magazine Archives Poetry Pearl
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Katherine Michaud
Katherine Michaud: Featured
Poet of the Month
Katherine Michaud is a 22 year old starving
artist. She has been writing poetry since the
age of 14, granted it was awful, and recently
discovered a love for art and design. She
graduated cum laude from Salisbury University in
Maryland, May 2003 with a bachelors degree in
Communication Arts (specializing in Public
Relations and Journalism).
She now turns her attention
to the University of Baltimore where she is a
full-time graduate student studying for her
masters degree in Publications Design. Every
free elective she takes tends to be writing
related. To pay the bills, Katherine is a
full-time Assistant Acquisitions Editor at the
publishing house, PublishAmerica. Not a
glamorous job, it does pay the bills and the
emotional satisfaction is high. She hopes to
eventually change departments in the company to
become either a text editor or cover designer -
as these coincide more with her love for the
creative. Volume 1, Issue 3, May 2004
A
BUNCH OF I AM ME POEMS OF MAY POET
KATHERINE MICHAUD
GHAZAL OF A RAINSTORM
Bursting through the quiet twilight:
tossing, tearing, turning in passion -
a thunderous storm awakens the night
with its passion.
Hidden in the underbrush, squirrels
skitter to sanctuary.
A lone acorn left spinning in their
dust, a forgotten passion.
Large droplets pound the roof of a
rusted blue Chevy.
Young boy moves in on innocent girl,
declaring his passion.
Clear suburban road, slick with fresh
puddles,
children pounce and giggle with purest
passion.
Hair in curlers, terry cloth robe
wrapped tight,
a mother calls out to her kittens, an
owner’s passion.
Painted in a window, features distorted
by the gale,
Katherine looks out and sees it all,
dreaming passion.
Up
HOW TO LIVE YOUNG
Upon waking, run around the house
goofily flailing extraneous limbs.
Jump on the beds of those who slumber.
Once calmed, eat lucky charms,
saving the marshmallows for last.
Slurp the milk, lick the bowl dry.
When in public, give in to bouts of
tourette’s:
scream “Petrified penis!” in a crowded
lobby.
Giggle and hide behind someone bigger
than you.
Go to the park with friends,
hang upside down from the monkey bars.
Have swinging contests:
Who can go higher and jump further?
Play on the carousel until you are so
dizzy
you might fall down.
Don’t stay out past dark –
run home as soon as the first street
light comes on.
Look both ways when crossing the street,
hold someone’s hand.
Be free with affection,
devote your entire being.
And then some.
Up
I AM ME
Of everything, a little stayed.
The world, vast and unexplored by my
eyes,
never called my name.
The office, seemingly always open.
The groceries, seemingly always gone.
I am here.
Of everything, a little changed.
Universities, with all their pull,
still call my name.
Salisbury, suburban and friendly.
Baltimore, a strange city, full of
strangers.
I always answer.
Of everyone, a few stayed.
Sisters, with all of their goals,
moved far away.
The older, conferencing in Switzerland.
The other, studying in Boston.
I am here.
Of everyone, a few changed.
Mother, with her singsong tone,
still calls my name.
Her calls, seemingly always echo.
Her needs, seemingly always unfulfilled.
I always answer.
Of everything, a little stayed.
A little changed.
Of everyone, a few stayed.
A few changed.
The world keeps turning and
I am still me.
Up
ON CONTEMPLATING
MY NEW LEATHER COAT
Darkened night,
like your smooth sleek skin
beckons me.
Come play…
Brightened stars,
like your shimmering interior,
lighten things up.
Stay a while…
Every night ends.
Every star fades.
And what will take its place?
I wonder…
As you take the spot light
from me to you,
I remind myself again -
I know…
Your beauty will fade
Mine goes deeper.
Copyrights @ Katherine
Michaud 2004-09
Up
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Life Goes On
The day it ended,
I thought I’d never breathe again.
The world should have caved in,
the lights should have gone out,
it should have been over.
When the world didn’t collapse
under the pressure of my sorrow,
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
When the thunder clouds didn’t roll in
to reflect my agony,
I should have welcomed the sun.
When a stranger smiled at me,
a nicety unfamiliar,
I shouldn’t have scowled.
I learned the hard way,
as everyone does,
that the world does not revolve around
me.
I woke up today.
I’ll probably wake up tomorrow.
I am still breathing,
still living,
still loving.
And finally, that’s
okay by me.
Up
LOSING ALY
“He doesn’t have much time”
Mom cried in my ear.
Nine hours later, running
into MamaJohn’s arms.
A rock of a grandmother.
Crumbling under the pressure.
Losing the love of her life.
All I could do is cling to her and cry.
“We can only see him two at a time.”
She sniffled, still crying through dry
eyes.
When it was my turn, I saw that Aly
wasn’t there.
The face jaundiced and puffy.
The body sunken and wasting.
The man could no longer close his eyes,
nor was he conscious.
Vaseline covered the lids,
moisturizing what was left.
When it was my turn, I tried not to cry
attempting to keep spirits up,
I joked to this vessel
that he had to live to be 120, like he
promised.
I stared blankly at the shell
and MamaJohn told me he lost his
virginity at age 8 to an 18 year old.
I scolded the body.
I thought about
sipping root beer floats some afternoons
on his patio.
playing balderdash when he’d choose the
silliest answers.
finding the perfect Christmas toy to add
to his collection.
learning card games from him with names
like “oh hell.”
climbing the pine tree and getting stuck
till he came to get me down.
listening to him fake laugh, then the
real laugh, then a boisterous laugh at
that laugh.
And then I let go.
Up
TYPICAL
Typical children bounce
On trampolines.
Little legs, chubby arms,
Flailing with delight.
I never had a trampoline,
So I improvised, I bounced
on a newly dead
squishy, rotting cow.
I was not the only one,
and flies danced about us
with each sickening plop
of our feet in the corpse.
I admit,
I’m not typical.
Up
YOUTH
When I was young, I
was the white unicorn.
Galloping through
a vast forest of students,
I remained untouched.
My snowy coat glimmering
like fairy dust,
a dew after the rain.
I was untouchable,
I was unknowable –
Or was I just untouched?
Just unknown?
With all of my majesty,
I existed apart:
a freak with a horn
right smack-dab
in the middle of my
forehead.
Up
Copyrights @
Katherine Michaud 2004-09
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