miriam hall
miriam is a wisconsin poet, born and raised in mccarthy's appleton, wi and now settled in madison. she began writing poetry to depeche mode when she was 13 or so, had an embarassing stint at born again poetry from 15–18 and has finally settled back into real creative writing in her twenties. she is heartily involved with lots of local open mics and poetry organizing, and can regularly be heard at premiere generation ink's open mic, cheap at any price and at scrawl.  also listen for her in the future on jonathan overby's higher ground on wisconsin public radio, and look for her upcoming interview with poet Martin Espada in the next Premiere Generation Ink journal (www.pgink.com).


Ghazal to the Octopus

I shall meet you in the public square, unarmed.
I shall lay down my guns with my bare arms.

I swim near the octopus in the September sun, no bones and no past, and
ache for his thousand suckers and sweetness, the grasp of his arms.

A birth-fresh baby snorts out blood, and unaware of where warmth
comes from, pushes her nose past my elbow to my underarm.

Before the mother bird breaks the shell with her beak, the father preens
her feathers, holds her bodice and cradles her tender heart in armistice.

How can I feel for you in the night, the sheets following your
left, then right legs, when you keep me at arm’s length?

I try to tap into the spider, but he wears his shield well,
preferring, in the face of affection, his armature.

I put on the wedding dress in the tailor’s closet, where I am
mirrored four times:  eight legs, four hearts, eight arms.

• • • • • • • •

My Poem Against the War

Out of a dream, I woke
to your touch, last
night; right hand on the
twelve, left on my
breast, near my heart.

I could not stop the bombs
in my ears, the sight
of sunflowers
blooming in my
blinking night vision.

© miriam hall