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First Published: September 24: 2015
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|| Katherine Michaud ||

Poets' Letter Magazine
Published in the 90s and then between 2004 and 2009


























Poets' Letter Magazine Archives Poetry Pearl


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

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



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.



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.



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.



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


Back to Poets' Letter Magazine Archives Poetry Pearl

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.



“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.



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.



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 


Copyrights @ Katherine Michaud 2004-09

Back to Poets' Letter Magazine Archives Poetry Pearl




Life's Laurel Is You In One-Line-Poetry A Heaven-Bound Propagated Ray Of Light Off The Eye Of The Book Of Life: Love For You Are Only Once



Life: You Are The Law The Flow The Glow: In Joys In Hurts You Are The Vine-Songs On The Light-Trellis



























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