Ronnie McGinn's Poetry Page

There is a world wide image of New York being an antlike jungle of skyscrapers and yellow cabs. Few, people around the globe realise that New York State has areas of natural tranquility and scenic beauty and that can match any place on Earth.

Christine Potter's poem "Fevered" has an internal intimatacy that lifts itself off the page and magically transports us to a beautiful sineous and relaxed atmosphere far removed from the everyday rat race of big city life.

Christine, a native New Yorker, tells us she has been head moderator of the internet poetry forum called The Gazebo since dinosaurs roamed the earth. It's at www.alsopreview.com.

She has published pretty extensively online and on plain old paper, in small magazines like The Pedestal, Stirring, and Barnwood. She has a book, "Zero Degrees at First Light" that came out in 2006 on David Robert Books.

Fevered

Spring is a kind of Sabbath although
there's work being done to conjure
the woods' green blur, the out-of-control
age of the forsythia. This afternoon is either
warm and cool depending on how clouds
and light line up. Our back door slams with
nothing pushing, it but a rising breeze. I'd
open it again but I'm busy listening to
the song of a bird I don't recognize, three
notes over and over. Besides, I'd have to
get up. Stone-colored cumulous, more wind.
The cat asleep in my lap lifts her head,
jumps down, pads off to her food dish. How
fitting, I think, that blossoms resemble lace-
or is it the other way around? Those same
three notes again, that same unknown bird.
Summer's serious business is still far away.

© Christine Potter