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Barbara Schweitzer

Barbara Schweitzer, the author of 33 1/3: Soap Opera Sonnet (Little Pear Press)has twice been the recipient of Merit Fellowships from the RI State Council on the Arts for poetry. Her work has been featured on Verse Daily and on WRNI’s “This I Believe” program as well as in many literary journals and anthologies.  Her plays have been staged in RI, MA, and ME. Her play Sub Zero is published in RI Writer’s Circle Anthology.

 

 


Barbara's Origami micro-chapbooks & selected poems are available below.

Origami Micro-chapbook

Selected Poem(s)

Heart-Shaped Rocks

 

Cover Photo: Carla Cesario

{mooblock=Heart-Shaped Rocks}

Nature loves to break
down and remake edges
rounding granite faces,
curving shores, scalloping
brittle sand and ice;
ledges bow to ocean urges,
fold themselves over
in supplicant repose,
sculpt caves of soft mouths
to swallow the high seas.
Eyes blink in direct sunlight –
even your baby blues.
Nothing craves a straight line.
Even our gritty words
circle in the zephyred air
and carve curlicues
around our feud.
Barbara Schweitzer © 2009

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Barbara’s Itty Bitty Sonnet Collection 1

 

{mooblock= Playing Hearts }

We kids cut our teeth on diamonds, our hearts
on spades and clubs. Our first houses weren’t made
with brick or straw but with a deck of cards.
Jokers were wild, aces were high, we played
for high stakes, as if our lives were on the line,
and of course they were each time we shuffled
the fifty two chances to fail or be blind
to each other’s feelings or needs, to muffle
kindness or care, to unlove each other,
and we did it so well, we went on to higher
feats like that, each with our own misnomer
and sense of ourselves as queen, king, or joker,
depending entirely on the luck of the draw,
when we were born, and the jungle’s heartless law.
Barbara Schweitzer © 2009

{/mooblock}

Sonnet Collection 38 (+2)

 

{mooblock=A Sonnet On Why I Write Sonnets}

One writes a sonnet in fifteen minutes
to uncover what one might have in mind,
not necessarily to beat Guinness
Book of World Records, but rather to mine
unknown fields of pleasure buried in silt
of everydayness one lives with without thought
to its harmful effect. Black lung’s sad ilk,
cachectic thinking, ruins minds, is that not
true? A sonnet addressed to you may leave
one open to complaint. Someone might say
rhyming words with “you” is downright lazy!
Stu, blew, few, through, two, queues are easy prey.
No matter.  It’s great fishing in a mind,
one’s own babbling brook bobbing fourteen lines.
Barbara Schweitzer © 2009

{/mooblock}