Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                        Page 53
                                   
Table of
Contents



Radio Flyer chauffeurs

They bought my red Radio Flyer wagon brand new.
I was the #1 kid in the house, carted off and pulled around by everyone;
I was the queen. My parents and young uncles were the chauffeurs.

I wish I could remember being
the tiny queen during Watergate.
I don’t remember Watergate at all---

My Radio Flyer circa the Seventies
often had dolls and my favorite Golden books in it,
waiting patiently for its next ride.

Rides I do remember: I became the chauffeur
in the late ‘70s-early ‘80s. Cousin Mandy,
my sister Devon and baby brother DJ demanded rides.
The wagon was outside, starting to warp and showing wear,
always either dirty or wet; we didn’t care.

Being #1 daughter/granddaughter slowly became a drag.
I was the responsible one, the narc, the guinea pig,
no longer the queen---the kiddos were running the show,
often running away. Radio Flyer practically flew
upon the ground as they raced down the hill.

I wished I could fly away—
queen-sized,
dragged around in the Flyer,
feeling free again.

Carrie Magness Radna __







First day in Venice

Like eager, newborn colts we bounded out of the airport tram
from the jet plane, still sleepy-eyed, & awestruck
by seeing the Alps (or Dolomites) Mountains from above

Venice’s humidity hit us like a Mack truck (not surprising; it’s surrounded by water)
the moment we hit the ground, babies we became, like the
swarthy passport guard boys that greeted us, “Okay, you fine”…we are here!

I drank my German Coke as the houses whizzed by in the sleek pickup car;
the sun beat down softly, but hot. Bells rang in the distance as we drove on…

The 10-minute walk to the piazza would had been more manageable
without the suitcases; (thank God for my commute to Queens)

There is life waiting on the canal, the terra-cotta houses and marble buildings,
frescoes, the cobblestones built over 250 years ago,
the people milling about, kissing, drinking Aperol spritzers and Camapri, eating gelato

We stopped for tapas, ate some speck ham (prosciutto)
and we sat by the water as the boats floated by.

We followed the narrow passages, lost like young fillies just learning to walk,
but we loved the journey as if we were half just-born,
half adventurers ready to run.

  Carrie Magness Radna__
___________________________________________________________

First violin (Belsca Quartet)

Perfect naked armpit
peeking out from silk teal,
flowing dress as water
as two, tanned, shapely arms
balance her bow with silken catgut
& she pauses, clicking her toe
on her iPad score
as she plays first violin passionately.

Naturally, she’s a Romanian
whose classical training took her to London
and she remained there, meeting
a Polish violist at University,
and they began a string quartet
named after her family name
which set the entire world on fire.

Did she keep her first violin?
Did her parents have an inkling
of her violin prowess?

Her obsidian wavy locks flowed freely,
shining under the concert hall lights.

The men also played well;
the 4 worked as a well-honed unit.
The quartet sparked the audience
members’ blood awake,
enchanting all, until the very last note.

  Carrie Magness Radna__
Butterflies in Hell

This was not my mother’s Mephistopheles,
where he stole a violin from an
unsuspecting fiddler;

No, if butterflies did exist in Hell,
where the pulsing of thousands
of delicate wings beating
themselves into submission
a thousand times over
in a small, badly-lit corner,

as every possible color dissolved
over and over again,
as the flames grew brighter,
with the moon-kissed wings of insects
beating on until their very last breath—

Liszt has created this.


  Carrie Magness Radna__

(inspired by Franz Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, no. 1 (Der Tanz in der Dorfischenke), S. 514,
as played by pianist Denis Matsuev at Carnegie Hall)