Vox Populi

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Sharon Fagan McDermott: Three Ways of Looking at Beauty

When the hypnotherapist brought me out of my trance, I wondered about this deer, about my new vision of beauty—why had it changed? Something fundamental in me had shifted and reconstructed itself.

October 17, 2021 · 15 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Summer’s End

The sudden slip of moon that turns the sun
into a wreath of fire. We’re waiting for that moment
during the eclipse when—at once—all the birds stop singing 

August 30, 2021 · 1 Comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Summer of Nectarines

Plague on the winds, in the air,
on our tongues in the midst of old conversations.

June 30, 2021 · 2 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: On Memory and Writing

In one of my favorite memories, I am peeking through my fingers, shivering, as New York Harbor, the heliport, the bustling-streets of New York City, and–even the skyscrapers— plummet away … Continue reading

May 18, 2021 · 6 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Parli Italiano

Language is a song of loose coins, spilling down
from the fountains. Then bells of the Duomo ring
out over Firenze.

January 27, 2021 · 8 Comments

Judith Sanders: Autumn Walk at Beechwood Farms

You said, Name the world.
So I said, I call this a spangle tree.
How about, you said, a rose-hued spangle tree.
That’s beautiful, I said.
Let’s name the world together.

October 7, 2020 · 7 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Sharon In Wonderland | Dandelion

The view from here? A prophecy
of how light, wind, and earth conspire
to play their role in dandelions’ flourishing—
then aids them in their vanishing.

April 27, 2020 · 1 Comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Orchid Room, Phipps Conservatory

Grandma lived to be ninety-three
and wore the fabric of that tale to a soft sheen
with her retelling. Where does the past lie?

February 6, 2020 · 3 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: This Against the Night

Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.

August 21, 2019 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Meditation on a Sanctuary

And still there is shelter in shade
and pummeling rain, in the produce aisle
with its mounds of lemons, nectarines.

June 5, 2019 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Carrie Furnace, Pittsburgh

The light is water driven through old gears and red lights sweep the streets looking for the lost while flaking brick simmers in itself like stew,   and black graffiti … Continue reading

April 3, 2019 · Leave a comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: The Book of Lesser Angers

presses each broken thing like an autumn leaf between pages where I watch the pace of disintegration, lacy residue.   Rain writes within it a sloppy welter—the neighbor shaking her … Continue reading

March 8, 2019 · 1 Comment

Sharon Fagan McDermott: What I Won’t Tell Myself

The moon salts the sky with stars and the only sounds in the house are the dog’s breath and the furnace’s belch through old pipes. On this coldest night of … Continue reading

January 19, 2019 · 3 Comments

Sharon Fagan McDermott: Halloween, Pittsburgh

such tender ghosts with their small hands reaching into bowls and baskets, so much that’s wrapped in shine even in the rain, even after disaster, even as the adults bury … Continue reading

November 2, 2018 · 2 Comments

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