Flying Island

Today (July 2) would have been the 86th birthday anniversary of Richard Pflum, a longtime fixture in the Indianapolis poetry community. He died on March 15. Several friends and colleagues honored him by submitting poems. Dick, as close friends called him, was a founding member of the Writers' Center of Indiana (now Indiana Writers Center). He ran the semi-monthly Poetry Salon, a feedback group for poets, and emceed the monthly An Evening With the Muse, which featured a guest poet and an open mic. He loved to frequent open mics in the city, often garnering respect from spoken-word artists. His collections of poetry include  Richard Pflum: A Dream of Salt (Raintree Press), A Strange Juxtaposition of Parts (Writers' Center Press, Indianapolis), The Haunted Refrigerator and Other Poems (Pudding House Press), Listening With Others: Poems Under the Musical Influence (The Muse Rules), and Some Poems to Be Read Out Loud: New and Selected Poems (Chatter House Press). Besides poetry,...

Going Dark             “To know the dark, go dark.” – Wendell Berry I am in the night place where more dark exists for opened eyes than closed and silence pushes into the ears. Here fire is a tongue. I have held fire, have followed the lipped contours of a riverbank in search of the mouth from which it pours. Now I kneel down, to grope my way. The ground is trembling. If I wake from here, into a bright, loud world, I will be mute and visionless. Now I reach through throated black to feel where I am and I touch surprising water which speaks in the palm of my hand.                         —by Liza Hyatt Bio: Liza Hyatt is the author of The Mother Poems (Chatter House Press, 2014); Stories Made of World (Finishing Line Press, 2013); and Under My Skin (WordTech Editions...

Invitations of the Wild Child by Liza Hyatt Stars. Now my turn. Watch me dance. Tell me a story that travels down my spine. Once the giant stood overhead. Now, look, Orion is lying down. Morning vibrates. Clouds curl, swoop down. The kingfisher dives red down into the water. We’ll run through the tree tunnel. Play in the vine house. Live by learning wild things. Inside is a forest, near where the sea wind meets bone, full mooned. Here is a crimson flower in loam. Learn by living the wild learning. I’ll pick this flower. It is just under the skin, small and excited, a heart pushed alone from the womb. Bio: Liza Hyatt is the author of The Mother Poems (Chatter House Press, 2014); Stories Made of World (Finishing Line Press, 2013); and Under My Skin (WordTech Editions, 2012). She plays the Celtic harp and often accompanies herself with the harp, bardic style. She hosts a monthly poetry reading/open mic at Lawrence Art Center on Indianapolis’ east side. ...