Creative Writing

Sarah Wyman is the author of Sighted Stones (Finishing Line 2018).  Recent poems have appeared in Lightwood Press “Some Rings Don’t Want to Make a Line,” (2020), Ekphrastic ReviewBread Sculpture by Grace Hartigan,” Potomac Review (2020), San Pedro River Review (2020), Tiny Seed (2019), The Sandy River Review “Hudson Lydie” (2019), aaduna (2018), Home Planet News (2017), Lumina, SG Press, (2017) AMP (Spring 2017), Ekphrasis (2017), The Vineyard Gazette (August 2016), Chronogram (June 2015), Petrichor Review 3 (2013), Mudfish 17 (2012).  She was a finalist for the Richard Eberhart prize in poetry and the Judith Siegel Pearson poetry award.  De Medici Press published her prize-winning chapbook Shared Fruit in 1997.  Her poem “Wet Exit” appears in A Slant of Light: Contemporary Women Writers of the Hudson Valley (Codhill 2013). Codhill press published her book Fried Goldfinch 2021.

Poetry Reading: Next Year’s Words, June 24, 2020

For copies of Sighted Stones (chapbook), click here.

Interview with Bill Berry, Jr., editor of Aaduna (2018)

Click here.

Odysseus: Lumina 6 a brooch by Jamie Bennett

We knew he didn’t want to find the path,

not after he saw each sunken ship

a hole in the sea tarred over by black blankets

while torches flamed above

and felted shadow rafts floated closer

to the sandy shore.


He made his odyssey as expected,

resisted luscious blossoms,

poked Polyphemus in the eye

so the world spun blind for good.

Did he foresee the suck where Charybdis

coughs up water chestnuts

like loosened teeth?

Deep and dark as a stiff drink

Aegean waters retreated

to let the hero sow his shredded leather in the softened sand.


When he meets the Messina Strait

and feels the heart shrink to a sharpened seedpod,

ready for the plunge,

crouching like an abandoned pin

caught in the tailor’s rug,

a push through to the weft edge

may be all it takes to hurry home.

                  Lumina, Jewelry by Jamie Bennett, SG Press, 2017.


American Spirit

It started with a scent from the bottom corner of a box

sweet and unique, wafting up from earlier days,

my grandmother’s Winstons, first drag before the crushed aftermath

of dirty ashtrays to empty and rinse with small hands.


I smelled the huge leaves hanging from rafters in Durham, North Carolina

where I tried my hand at marriage

and the warm breeze brought tobacco air up the hill from the factory.

Brick kiln buildings sped the slow dry and we peeked in propped windows to see.


Someone sketched the Camel Cigarette logo in the stairwell to the landlord’s pad.

He was always there, humping his way to the landing when I breezed in from class

or maneuvered the stroller over the threshold

gently enough to keep the baby quiet.


I’d like to dive to the bottom of that discarded carton

where a few brown chips breathe their fragrance,

all-natural with a stolen Indian whose feathered pipe declares

some past truth, embossed with the tiny tax code I’d pay to travel back

to where air mixed in the smoke and the lid still fit.



Dead Bird


up the tree                                                  housed in plywood

no one could                                              find a space

see where a bird cap                                slaughtered by the dawn

left half under mulch                               that creeps light in predictably

had surrendered its feathers                  to smear a message

scalped red star                                         pointing south west at once

with black backbones                              arrow aviaries

to each frond now flattened                  as though the route were doomed                                                                                  


is it a squirrel                                              running over thick roots

that tumbles a dry seed                            flexing muscled bark arms

down the polymer roof                             to dirt declivities

or the wind’s glancing puff                      blows blown loam

as the pressure rises                                  too wet to fly

and gray storm clouds                              that journey ended.

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