Will of the City Project Featuring Exchange by Poet Anya Banerjee Saint Flashlight has been featured on our page before and we deeply love and admire their commitment to releasing poetry into public spaces from theater marquees to slips of paper with mysterious phone numbers where those in the know can score a poem. This time they're sending poetry into the wild with a little help from the world’s most famous playwright! The new project is called Will of the City and you can check it out by clicking on the link. Saint Flashlight is partnering with Theatre for a New Audience to present poems inspired by William Shakespeare all during the fall. This partnership spotlights the work of over a dozen writers on the outdoor screens at Polonsky Shakespeare Center – Theatre for a New Audience’s home in Fort Greene - into an anthology of poems inspired by Shakespeare’s plays. Sacred Chickens is happy to announce that we are able to share one of these poems – from a brilliant new writer, Anya Banerjee – with our readers
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 5 Poems Author, Renwick Berchild Whistler
Grasses bob, the trees press, expand; press, expand as lungs. Loyal speaker, who spake the first murmurings—whistler at the window. What’s that? Faces stack, knotholes of wisps in the darkness, agape and wakeful just as I, truculent foreheads, lined lips, I’ve a wife who died, is she there? Another unholy moaner outside, watchful. Whistler at the window: See the spinning? Hear the hive? Let a demon hush its language to you for a while. Let us in - let us in! I’ve a potion in my eye, an incantation beneath my fingernail. He lies - he lies! Children are burning in the cold - let us in, let us in, let us in in in! Why bake bread when you can steal it? Give us a bed to rest our lives. Snake winding round the globe, grey cloud a turret on the night’s mount gliding across the mirror black, little woman set, six arms weaving at the loom with superb finesse—but the hisser? Just a tail slick as glass, sliding in its yowls, rabbit whining all through the twigs; nimbus jugular ripe for tearing, a spilling of rain; whistler sends regards. |
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