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Elizabeth A.
Marshall
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New England
The wind blows cold tonight
In off the ocean, and across the cliffs of
the long battered coast of New England.
This harsh, attenuate land is nourished by
this riddle known as the Atlantic.
It is here that I stand, looking out over
this sea, these fields, this thin soil which
nourishes nothing- yet still inspires
growth,
Against all odds life springs from this
ground.
Life that is strong and independent, intent
on growth-and solidarity.
This is my homeland, this soil from which
I've sprung, the land in which I've grown-
intent on escape.
Escape which is elusive, evasive.
This thin blood runs through my veins, like
the soil.
We the children of this sea battered land
mimic the vegetation of our fatherland-
thriving in this stone ridden soil, where
growth seems impossible.
Yet, still we persist our stems tender,
but our roots deeply grounded in this land.
This land birthed of revolution, built on
premise of change.
This land returns to revolt no longer
against a far away country, but against its
children.
We the pilgrims, the settlers, are still
restless not unlike the current of this
great ocean which batters the long suffering
Eastern shore
of our America.
New England II
Darling, the wind blows cold tonight
Along the long battered New England coast.
Tonight I will try to dissect myself,
A hopeless, rebellious Puritan.
I know where to cut.
I know how to bleed my apologies.
Once when we were younger,
We drank a bottle of bourbon
On the beach at midnight.
You told me ghost stories,
And I wasn't frightened.
I was still eighteen.
Do you remember that it rained
for the rest of the week?
Liquid erosion along the shore.
That was years ago.
We are older now;
There is more to remember.
Now, I do not know if
Your lips tasted like salt -
All that is trivial.
Then, I would have said that
I loved you and God and even myself.
We have lived here forever,
We are these rocks and this sand.
These old ghosts,
These long gone ancestors,
These other lives are interwoven
With our lives.
February 1993
We've returned to the past tonight.
Returned to ourselves- and to each other,
And to boxes of photographs.
These pictures when we sort them
Take on new shapes,
Your sister, my mother, our lovers, our dear
ones
Transform time, transform each other.
They are our loves, our enigmas, our
chameleons.
We have returned to sort through the boxes-
And to compile our pictures into one album,
No longer separate and complete,
No longer frozen in time in their various
poses
But combined-and neutral.
Neutral as the flashing light of the motel
sign-
Vacancy- Vacancy, the steady neon rhythm
illuminates
Our faces, our histories, our bodies
intertwined.
Later, in the tranquility of a 5 A.M dawn
We press our lips to the cool, smoothness of
our photographs,
Blow these things a kiss good-bye
And take a new picture.
Elizabeth Ann Marshall grew up in rural New England. She has been writing poetry since she was five years old. In 1987, Elizabeth received her first publication credit for a short story, published in the Connecticut Student Writers Magazine. Elizabeth was accepted into the Young People's Institute later that year. There, she spent several summers attending intensive poetry and fiction workshops. In 1994, she moved to Long Island to attend Adelphi University where she graduated with a B.A. in English Literature and a concentration in 20th century History. A year after her college graduation, Elizabeth returned to New York to attend Pace University School of Law. She graduated with her Juris Doctor degree in 2002. Elizabeth was married in 2004 and now lives in Atlanta, GA with her husband and their three cats. Her most recent publications have appeared in Lowe's Prose and Poetics Magazine and the Scars 2006 National Poetry Calendar. At present, Elizabeth is busy writing and revising new poems as well as working on her first novel.
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