Ryan Cupp

With a voice somehow reminiscent of that of a parent tucking a small child into bed, Ryan Cupp delivers his sensitive and beautifully written poetry. Now reaching the end of his high school years, he is already a regular at various readings about town, and has even been the host of his own short series. His work ranges from the touching to the creepy, all spoken in the same soft, careful tones.



Angelina's Puddle
Star dusted water
trinkles down
the side of her face,
mud-stained.

Angelina jumps again
with her head bent backwards
her arms and hands
lifted and unfolded
untouched
by the sky drops.

She lands in
      moon shadows
      overcast on cement skin.
She lands in
      her puddle
      watching the water
      bend over backwards
      and fall again,
      arms lifted
      hands unfolded.

She stands waiting
for a puddle to form
in her palm,
her fingers
grasping
star-dusted drops.

She stands in
      moon shadows
      overcast on cement skin.
She stands in
      her puddle
      watching the water
      in her palm.



When momma said a prayer
when momma said a prayer
she closed her door
not letting the silence
get to her
she would stand on one knee
bow her head
and watch a puddle of water form
on the upholstery rug
next to her left foot.

When momma arched her hands
she closed her eyes,
saying
only a few words
her arms rested
on blue quilt covers,
resting
on her queen sized bed.

When momma stayed in her room
for an hour or an evening
we would misplace our words
and fight over the chores
that never existed
never wanted to exist.
when momma went to the hospital
she closed her eyes
saying only a few words
not letting the silence
escape.



Touching the bed
When you wake up
thinking
it couldn't be it.
It just wasn't enough;
You find your screams
in a blizzard of dreams
and the closet
sleeps.
The moon light
in the sky
reflects
the shades
of your room
the shades
of an hour
past one.
Touching your bed
out of spite.
Chasing the monsters
in your walls
in your closet,
in your night light.
Chasing away
the trees
knocking
on your door.
You can feel
your heart
start to pump
that poisoned feeling
through your veins.



This collection was posted here in May 2000.

All poetry and other artistic writings are their authors and reproduced here with their permission.



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