M.J. IUPPA
M.J. Iuppa is the Director of the Visual and Performing Arts Minor Program
and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College; and since 2000
to present, is a part time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at
Brockport. Since 1986, she has been a teaching artist, working with students,
K-12, in Rochester, NY, and surrounding area. Most recently, she was awarded
the New York State Chancellor's Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching,
2017. She has four full length poetry collections, This Thirst (Kelsay Books,
2017), Small Worlds Floating (2016) as well as Within Reach (2010) both from
Cherry Grove Collections; Night Traveler (Foothills Publishing, 2003); and 5
chapbooks. She lives on a small farm in Hamlin NY (USA).![]()
One Breath, One Wish
The wind claps—
air spins a round
of anyone's guess— of revolution
that shivers between a stand
of winter trees
~ ~ ~
When the meadow is empty,
except for a bit of snow,
a bit of precocious wind pressing
against what's left
to be removed— that errant stalk of cat's tail
casting its lissome shadow— long
~ ~ ~
I am not sure if I've ever agreed with you
whole-heartedly— my reserve of air
just before dark keeps me up-
right as mercury dips below
freezing
Seeking Shelter
All that is lost— momentarily misplaced
in the stillness of woods filled
with shell-shocked relics— those stone
footings of barracks left in haphazard
heaps covered in bright green bits of
lichen and moss— small fires of light
glowing through the clouds' ceiling
cracks, alighting a path to the frozen
pond tucked inside the deep pocket
of red osier— an empty room
waiting to be occupied.
Gratitude
This morning I woke, remembering
dream's distant shoals—
sensing the sun's radiation on my neck and shoulders,
repairing my sallow face— its deep pity for
my seemingly detached feet & hands— how strange it is
to become a mottled crayfish, single-minded & armored,
ready to scuttle along the rocky ledge of this creek, with its icy
waters tumbling, over and under, casting phrases
of obscurities— a hundred shades of yellow rise to the surface
to confuse my sense of direction . . .
This morning I woke, checking
my body's temperature to see if I were warm-blooded or cold.
Could I see the familiar or not? Could I lift myself up,
out from under the bedding that swaddles me in another
winter's sleep?
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This morning, I woke.
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