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Tuesday Poetry with James Goertel. Today: A Blood Orange Without A Branch

Tuesday Poetry with James Goertel. Today: A Blood Orange Without A Branch

A BLOOD ORANGE WITHOUT A BRANCH (THE WORD AT MIDNIGHT) from James Goertel for your Tuesday Poetry feature pleasure.

The glass bulb of the lightbulb has been opened, causing the inert gas inside to escape. When turned on, the tungsten filament burns with a flame, due to oxygen entering the light bulb. The light bulb was screwed into a socket, which was replaced with the lamp base using image processing. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons ‘Attribution-NonCommercial-NonDerivative 3.0 (US)’ Licence: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/. This photograph was taken by author Stefan Krause

The glass bulb of the lightbulb has been opened, causing the inert gas inside to escape. When turned on, the tungsten filament burns with a flame, due to oxygen entering the light bulb. The light bulb was screwed into a socket, which was replaced with the lamp base using image processing. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons ‘Attribution-NonCommercial-NonDerivative 3.0 (US)’ Licence: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/. This photograph was taken by author Stefan Krause

A BLOOD ORANGE WITHOUT A BRANCH (THE WORD AT MIDNIGHT)
There is a moon which hangs,
blood orange still rising
which reminds October
I still haunt this small room
constructed of smoke and words,…
ghosts given up long ago
sitting cross-legged
in an attic over my head,
no closer to the stars
than I, their limbs
like uncertain branches
in an autumn wind
as they rise to walk on
without me
beyond these walls
which hold only memories
of nicotine
and the ash blackened impressions
of one hundred poems
begun, then abandoned
in nightly rituals
of self-immolation
casting their glow
upon a man burning candles
at both ends, upon tree limbs
tapping at windows
to remind me of the distance
between roots and sky
and that I am still somewhere
in between,
my wax covered hands
still reaching for rungs
even my own ghosts
cannot grasp
beneath a waning moon,
a blood orange
without a branch
for a foothold out of this room
where I languish
with the word still wanting
at midnight.
 

JAMES GOERTEL

James Goertel. Under The Same Moon

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Born in North Dakota, James Goertel spent twenty years working in television for ABC, NBC, and ESPN, among many others in the U.S. He currently teaches writing at Penn State. Carry Each His Burden (2011) was his fiction debut. Each Year an Anthem (2012) was his poetry debut. With No Need for a Name (2012) and Self Portrait (2013) are his follow-up collections. His debut novel Let the Power Fall will be published in 2014.

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