Dig City

A poet's voice from the Mojave Desert: My latest collection, Roadside Epiphanies, from Cholla Needles Press features the Pushcart Prize nominated poem "Breaking." Here's what Jeffrey Alfier, Co-editor of Blue Horse Press and 2014 winner of the Kithara Book Prize had to say about it:

"From an unswerving devotion to poetry, Michael Dwayne Smith’s images amplify outward from the Mojave desert to the sordid metropolis of Los Angeles, and on up into California’s northern regions. But Roadside Epiphanies is far from parochial. With clarity and keen control of sentiment, Smith is mindful of the need to express poignant truth in the simple, yet pungent smell of cigarettes in a young girl’s tangled hair, or in “any space / alive with emptiness.” He renders to us the world at large — the universe in a cholla needle, something of Blake’s world in a grain of sand. There is much to admire in the depth and breadth of Smith’s lines. His striking and eloquent control of language and image make this collection of poems a delight to behold."

I’ve been tagged by fellow poet Brianna Pike, a soulful, crafty, and tactile poet, to post a poem of mine (published, early draft, loved or hated) each day for five days. Each day, I’m to tag another poet to join the challenge. For day one I’m selecting my poem “Water Babies,” which was published in the September, 2013 edition of Stone Highway Review. The link is to the full PDF issue, so I'm posting the poem alone here, as well. This poem shares a second heart with the remarkable Sezin Koehler, who kindly transplanted this poem into one of her passionate “Frida” works of art. We share a Frida spirit-- I count myself lucky to have Sezin as a friend.

Water Babies Michael Dwayne Smith

Frida, a pulse inside the mirror.

Letters written, and terrible miscarriages. Poems impaled on their own syllables.

Crucifixion, transfiguration, sacrament and wine, stripped Catholic naked, wither of soul in brilliant red plume, velvet costume, mask painted gold.

Energy folds into this life, as if my own envelope of DNA. Open it, read it, say, in a unified field of story.

Blood pulsar, pregnant, lame lamb. Leap from a tall building into a warm bath. Pull our darkened eyes under, nostrils bubbling, until last air escapes.