IN THE SPACES BETWEEN...
Above: Wendy Taylor Carlisle with her dog XenaWarriorPrincess.
Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in the spaces between Texas and Arkansas, Arkansas and Missouri, Texas and Louisiana. She is the author of Persephone on the Metro (MadHat press, 2014), Discount Fireworks (Jacaranda Press, 2008) and Reading Berryman to the Dog (Jacaranda Press, 2000).
Her poems have appeared on line at Fringe Magazine, Ghoti Magazine, Salt River Review, 2River View, The Arkansas Literary Forum, Unlikely Stories, StorySouth and others and in print in CiderPress Review, Cardinalis, Windhover, Borderlands, Ekphrasis and others. She has won The Bernice Blackgrove Award for Excellence, The Lipscomb Award from Centenary College, and a Passager Poetry Contest Award.
UPCOMING READINGS & APPEARANCES
Where: The Village Writing School
177 Huntsville Road, Eureka Springs, AR. 72632
When: 2nd and 4th Sunday of the Month at 2:00 pm.
About: Wendy Taylor Carlisle, published Poet and Author leads and mentors a small circle of aspiring poets through the process and experience of writing in various poetic forms. To become a member of Roundelay, contact Wendy Taylor Carlisle or The Village Writing School at .
Click here to contact Wendy.
On an Island
On an island of oleander and draft stallions, the soft whicker of mares leads dusk into a pasture where the limits of action are barbed wire. A horse there can still stretch his neck across to rip the grass on the greener side. In this cropped circle of reach the mare lips my sleeve while around us flies buzz over the horseshit which is slang for nonsense and is subtly different from bullshit which is to say lies, but which might be the same when differences in how we view the fence allow prisoner management to be conflated with torture, depending on our lexicon, depending on our reach.
Poem by Wendy Taylor Carlisle, from Discount Fireworks
PERSEPHONE ON THE METRO
If you want a different story, you swing
the mop. What I remember is the weight
of nights and their particulars, sunrise
as a mist before the day slid over us,
lifting like an indigo balloon, striped
to amuse the limbic part of the brain that
sees a lover through the window, gone up
the gravel path with the noble rattle and
crunch of a serious journey, his canteen
swaying. But for me there's something prissy
about talking like this without mentioning
dirt and residue, listing the leftovers:
greasy knife, stained linens -- when I know later
if I want the place clean, I move the river.
PUBLISHED IN 2014