Tag Archives: Stanley Anne Zane Latham

“Things You Don’t Write About 9/11/2001,” by Stanley Anne Zane Latham

A dear friend authored this deeply personal and quite beautiful poem.  I am honored to be able to feature it here.

“Things You Don’t Write About 9/11/2001”

by Stanley Anne Zane Latham

It was an ordinary train ride
You, me, Leita, and Dan
We didn’t mean to get separated.

We didn’t mean anything
in those days. We were
in college. It seemed

like we were rebels. Our parents
ate cabbage; our parents. Gosh,
we thought, what happened to them?

We simply got on a train. We didn’t
tell them. We were skipping school,
old enough to be our own.

I have to tell them, you loved me.
Dan loved Leita. I loved you.
We all kind of loved.

It was supposed to be
a simple day in New York.
It was supposed to be

A simple day in New York.

You don’t want me to bring
our life after this back
to this. Moment. There

is nothing like an almost.
In the aftermath, when the train
stopped, when no one was

ever the same again; i mean
the conductor said – Do you remember
what the conductor said?

i remember : it was a morning train
i remember : the birds flying at the windows
i remember : You shrouding me across

the platform.

i had you. You had me.
Dan had Leita, Leita had Dan.
We were never the same.


Photo credit: “F coming into Smith-9th,” by Error46146 at en.wikipedia. Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

“Bumblebee,” by Eric Robert Nolan

There has simply been way too much pathos of late among the blogosphere’s poets.  In the past few days, our own little online circle has labored to describe houses full of empty picture frames (Dennis Villelmi), nightmare airports (me), sick children (Anna Martin), and even Old Yeller (SAZL).

It’s summer.  Let’s lighten the mood.  “Bumblebee” was first published by Every Day Poets in September 2013.

It’s a poem about a bee.  No, the bee is not a metaphor for childhood guilt or lost loves, and, no, it does not attack the narrator like one of Cthulhu’s minions.  (I’m not always such a surly duck.)

Anyone who catches the Kevin Smith reference in this blog post will be made an honorary correspondent.  And that’s a coveted distinction.  Just ask Len Ornstein about his newfound fame and renown.



“Bumblebee,” by Eric Robert Nolan


Bumbling along a bit close to me

Is busy Mister Bumblebee

He inventories dandelions

With prodding, plush black legs.


I inventory carcinogens

With unfiltered cigarettes,

My legs, in bluejeans, lazily

Crossed in the grass.


He buzzes, I puff.

A mute truce transpires

I won’t stomp if he won’t sting.

Just two fellas


Mindin’ their own business.


© Eric Robert Nolan 2013


Photo credit: “Bee In a Dandelion,” Busangane, own work, via Wikimedia Commons. 

“Houseguests,” by Stanley Anne Zane Latham

Here is another evocative piece by Stanley Anne Zane Latham —  “Houseguests.”  This poem currently appears in a publication in India, “Poets And Artists Unplugged Anthology.”  SAZL was kind enough to let me also run it here.


Staying up with skeletons. Reorganizing drawers.
I require napkins between the spoons, not touching.
You said the plates *here* by the dishwasher –
I said *there* by the table.

          Señor Tom Johnson was a name we called the cat.
          His business always elsewhere. He sauntered
          proverbial. Nuestra casa es su casa.

You never left your hammer out like this,
lounging idol near the jam. The confused photograph,
framed for hanging, waits on the seat cushion,
the warm nail rolls and rolls pressing creases from my fingerprints.

          We never interfered. Sam and Jessica quarreled
          into a car that sped down the rainy highway. One
          did not return. The other we helped pack the turtle,
          and load the moving van.

You’d never leave your hammer in the jam like this.
The spoons are not touching. The kettle wails. The wall
is papered in what if, if only, even though, and it
doesn’t matter, with a brush of best intentions.

          How are you? After your funeral, my mother poured
          milk from a glass pitcher into a clear glass glass.
          They mean well, my mouth mouthed
          in the maw inside my head.

One plate sleeps by the dishwasher. Not stacked.
Pitcher, hammer, spoon. Things I can grasp.
If you’re going to hang around here all night,
I whisper, at least stir some honey
into this tea.

© sazl 2013


“What We Do,” by Stanley Anne Zane Latham (SAZL)

I’ve been very lucky to enjoy an online friendship with a wonderfully talented poet, Stanley Anne Zane Latham.

SAZL has just returned after traveling for nearly two years, and it sounds as though she’s been on quite a journey.  She’s brought back “a bundle of handwritten notes and scribbles and recordings” from which she derives poetic inspiration.

She surprised her friends (and fans) by posting a couple of new pieces; here is one that I really like in particular.  🙂

What We Do

She would never love you and you
would never put your arm around her again –
so you set off down the hill with your chain saw
and a bottle to cut wood.

It was crazy the positions and scenarios
you had to contrive.
You had to convince the thing to come at you –
hit yourself silly in the head with the bottle
and in the end the deed was done
by tying it to a tree with your jeans, shirt, and underwear,
then feeding your arm to it.

She would never love you, and you,
you would never lay a hand on her again.

you said how much this sucked
being one-armed and strolled down
1st Avenue to have a hand cupping your chin
tattooed across your face.

© sazl 2015


Stanley Anne Zane Latham’s “Listen”

I must be getting old …

One of the most beautifully talented poets I know, Stanley Anne Zane Latham, recently had a piece published at Dead Beats Literary Blog, and I missed it!

Enjoy “Listen.”