NOVEMBER 22, 2023

by Marc Swan

iHeart podcast

Before we finish steaming bowls of homemade
chicken soup at our favorite cafe on Washington Ave,
talk shifts from the dilemma with his wife’s family
and the chaos and uncertainty of the next election
to where we were sixty years ago today.
He was in a fourth grade class in Memphis
when the principal released them,
no explanation he can recall.
On the ride home the driver had a transistor radio on.
She slowed to a stop, turned to the students,
eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed,
told them what had happened 
in Dallas earlier that day.
When he got home the house was quiet.
He can’t recall if his parents ever talked of JFK.
I was on a Greyhound east of Chicago 
on a cold rainy ride through open countryside
when a lady a few rows back turned her radio 
up high. We all heard the news.
Two bluesmen began singing “Jesus is Coming Soon,”
one strummed a battered old Gibson out of tune.
A bottle of Southern Comfort made its way up the aisle.
I took a long pull, slipped it to the lady beside me.
She never looked up, downed a gulp
and passed it along. The driver pulled to the side 
of the road. We stood together, a light rain falling—
I never imagined what the future could hold.

Marc Swan lives in coastal Maine. Poems recently published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Nerve Cowboy Anthology, Misfit, Sheila-na-gig, among others. His fifth collection, all it would take, was published in 2020 by tall-lighthouse (UK).

TIME OUT

by Marc Swan

Photo by Nadia Povalinska "who recently fled her home in Ukraine. It is from before the war, just a few weeks and a lifetime ago." —Heather Cox Richardson, Letters From an American, March 11, 2022.

In the photo, her back is to us.

She holds a scarlet red umbrella,

perhaps a harbinger of spring

or an unknowing portent 

of things to come,

that shields her head, 

catches snow 

falling from nearby trees

in a quiet park 

away from busy streets.

Late winter leaves 

glow cinnamon 

on snow-covered branches.

There are tracks, 

but she walks alone

in a small city in Ukraine.

The way life was before 

bombs and rockets fell,

hospitals, churches, clinics fell,

museums, homes, restaurants fell, 

and people—

defending their way of life

now buried in mass graves.

Today two US journalists— 

one dead, the other wounded

just outside Kyiv.

Marc Swan, a retired vocational rehabilitation counselor, lives in coastal Maine. His fifth collection, all it would take, was published in 2020 by tall-lighthouse (UK).

PERSPECTIVE

by Marc Swan

“This is a relatively civilized” city, he says, referring to Kyiv, after saying it’s not like Iraq or Afghanistan. https://t.co/q6UEtwvzyZ

— Mehdi Hasan (@mehdirhasan) February 26, 2022

Each morning after an espresso

from our six-cup stovetop

with granola, yogurt and blueberries

in our favorite ceramic bowls

we review the news in the online sources

disheartening is a mild term

enlightening

sometimes

watching the world dissolve before our eyes

is unnerving, overwhelming, disjointing

first European invasion since WW II

how quickly we have forgotten invasions

in Gaza, Egypt, Lebanon, the Balkans, Africa, 

and points beyond and in between

today eastern and western economies 

have our attention

fuel prices, trade options, empty store shelves

car prices, building supplies, and yes

the list has only begun

we are interlocked in this chaotic world

of language differences, money differences

but most of all ideology differences

that create distrust, uncertainty, and taint

the taste of Pavé Toulousain cheese

we used to get

from the French farm outside Toulouse

and the crisp white Txakolina 

imported from the Pyrenees—

that once seemed so important 

Marc Swan, a retired vocational rehabilitation counselor, lives in coastal Maine. Poems recently published in Gargoyle, Crannóg, Chiron Review, Queen’s Quarterly, among others. His fifth collection all it would take was published in 2020 by tall-lighthouse (UK).

BEFORE THE FIRE

by Marc Swan

"You say you want a revolution... " —John Lennon

Thoughts turn to the Founding Fathers—

an oxymoron perhaps. I envision 

them around the hearth,

wooden tankards, pewter mugs in hand 

contemplating the future of this new land. 

Did they foresee manifest destiny—

a two-coast country, 

French and English speaking to the north, 

Spanish speaking to the south, 

expanse of prairie, native beasts hunted 

down, more importantly 

Indigenous peoples decimated 

in the name of a united states? 

What of states, 

offshoots of a federal land grab—

thirteen to start then the quest began. 

In framing that constitution written 

so long ago— 

a two-party system 

now stuttered and stalled,

amendments sporadic, difficult 

to achieve, did they envision

blue states on edge, thick-bellied

red center, chaos, political turmoil, 

climate wracked by indifference.

Settled in front of my hearth,

feet resting on the ottoman,

thoughts turn to 2022—

rivers rise, forests burn,

a black sky holds the night.

Marc Swan’s fifth collection, all it would take, was published in 2020 by tall-lighthouse (UK). Poems forthcoming in Chiron Review, Gargoyle, Steam Ticket, Coal City Review, among others. He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, a maker and yoga teacher.

REALITY CHECK

by Marc Swan

for Jane Ferguson

Birds shriek, buildings fall,

body counts mount

in Beirut, Kabul, Baghdad,

parts of Africa, South Asia.

Where have all the flowers gone

I think in the quiet of my office

on a quiet road in a quiet village

along the coast of Maine. I try

to imagine reporting live 

from these hostile locales, 

most importantly staying alive. 

I think of a Special Correspondent

for PBS, an Irish-British journalist 

with long blond hair tucked 

under a head scarf, jeans 

and a military-style jacket

treading lost roads in leather boots

with another woman, camera in hand.

We never see her, but know

she’s shooting the footage

we’ll see on the nightly news.

In recent reports, the Taliban 

armed to the teeth 

seem more than willing to speak 

on camera as the journalist 

asks hard questions in Arabic, 

translated for us in the comfort 

of heated living spaces unaware 

of what is truly seen, heard, 

felt in places of unending conflict—

what does constant fear smell like?

Marc Swan’s latest collection all it would take was published in May 2020 by tall-lighthouse. Poems recently published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Stony Thursday Book, Queen’s Quarterly, MockingHeart Review.  He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, an artist and yoga teacher.

CONTEMPLATE THIS FOR A MOMENT

by Marc Swan

Mario Guti/Getty Images via Los Angeles Magazine

Through my window I watch the older woman
across the street hold her mask
as one of the teen bathing beauties
returns from the dock. She dons her mask

and asks of the crowd—
the mid-August high tide locals
who gather each afternoon for a swim,
a paddle board or kayak ride,

a mixed bag, mostly kids,
young adults, no masks
or social distancing—
immunity of the community expected.

I try to imagine what this older woman thinks,
taking medication,
immune system compromised,
just wanting a short walk to a safe place.

I think of school reopening,
many starting in outdoor tents,
seated on folding chairs

or in some cases hay bales. Masks
for the middle and high school kids,
teachers trying to educate in person
as government leaders, some parents expect—

inspire the children, give them a social outlet,
a safe place to go
while parents toil in the work space,
play tennis at the club,
go for long walks along the shore.

If the wind picks up or rain falls
in a torrential burst     what then?

And when the virus strikes hard and deep
where will the students be?

Marc Swan’s latest collection all it would take was published in May 2020 by tall-lighthouse. Poems forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Stony Thursday Book, Nerve Cowboy, among others. He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, an artist and yoga teacher.

A THURSDAY EVENING IN JULY

by Marc Swan

Two couples, one deck, no masks,
seated at separate tables
six feet apart drinking chilled white wine,
eating snacks from separate trays—
crackers, bleu cheese, olives, carrots, celery.
Conversation starts with tomato plants—
kind, size, growing patterns, anticipation
of the fruit called by some a vegetable
that will soon burst through on this deck.
Dusk settles, conversation shifts to the virus—
what we know, what we believe, what
we want the future to hold for us, for our
families. Subject moves on to politics—
a litany of those things we can’t control,
think about, worry about, and here we are
once again saying it out loud. Hopeful
on one level, pessimistic on another.
The take down of a society, principles
and values, by one man and his motley crew
in less than four years. Good thoughts
on fruit ripening replaced by anger, confusion,
hopelessness. Thunder jolts the air, rain
falls in heavy pelts against the umbrellas.
We’re invited inside, not sure the best plan,
but here we are socially distanced, no masks,
a fresh glass of white wine in hand,
conversation shifts to what we can control
or at least think we can.

Marc Swan’s latest collection all it would take was published in May 2020. Poems forthcoming in Gargoyle, The Stony Thursday Book, Channel Magazine, among others. He lives in coastal Maine 

with his wife Dd.

ANY FUNCTIONING ADULT 2020

by Marc Swan




On a lawn down a side street off a main drag
in Portland Maine, it catches my eye—
simple phrase in red, white and blue
with a big bang center stage
to that intact region our current leader
can’t claim—a brain that thinks, acts,
feels with compassion, caring, humanity.
A sign in a yard can’t change the world
but it can open thinking beyond
media thrum and whimper—
insult, injury, uncertainty, and help us feel
we can make a difference
as clichéd as that may be. Grab your pen,
paper, keyboard, text, phone, load up
the information highway with a message
echoing these immortal words—
Yes We Can.

Marc Swan has poems forthcoming in Stonecoast Review, The Nashwaak Review, Channel Magazine, Floyd County Moonshine, among others. His latest collection today can take your breath away was published by Sheila-na-gig Editions in 2018. He lives in coastal Maine with his wife Dd, an artist, clothing designer and maker.

JANUARY 13TH, 2017

by Marc Swan

https://www.womensmarch.com

In a short hop against convention, my wife
and I were married on a Friday the 13th. Today
a road trip to honor one. We drive to Belfast, two
hours north, to the Farmer’s Market. My wife’s
a large fan of fresh produce even in wintertime. We
meet a local farmer with twenty-three water buffalo.
I’m staggered by the number, more shocked by how
they survive. This isn’t India or Southeast Asia. She
assures me they have a warm barn, plenty to eat.
My wife buys milk for yogurt. The farmer tells us,
you’ll be amazed. I’m starting to feel the healthy
pull of the day. We travel route one to Rockland
for lunch, the warmth of an Irish cafe. Good food,
friendly staff generous with their time, tables fill
as people trundle in from the cold wind blowing
outside. From here we drive south to Wiscasset
to see a favorite shop owner who in short order
expresses her growing feelings about the election.
Every Friday thru the holidays she’s been donating
twenty per cent of her sales to five nonprofits that
will likely be battered under the new regime.
Her heart sings Cohen’s “Hallelujah" as we talk
of support for those things that separate thinking
folks from those who think chaos should reign.
Across the street in another store, a saleslady we’ve
never met senses our liberal lean. Running her hands
thru her thick blond-tinted hair, she talks of the march
in Washington and how important it is to be there—
she will “next Saturday.” Eyes water as she goes
on about rip and tear on what was once understood
as democracy too quickly becoming something
with another name from lessons never learned:
fascist, authoritarian, despotic and in these
difficult times we live, simply wrong.

Marc Swan’s poems have recently been published or forthcoming in Scrivener Creative Review, Crannóg, Mudfish, Gargoyle, Nuclear Impact Anthology, Coal City Review, among others. He lives with his wife Dd in Portland Maine.