FEATURE
December 2006

Miranda Girard


THE CORTLAND REVIEW

E
SSAY
Tony Barnstone
  "A Manifesto on the Contemporary Sonnet: A Personal Aesthetics"
Tony Barnstone considers the sonnet from its formal beginnings to its evolution into the twenty-first century, including some generative techniques for sonnets of your own


S
ONNETS
Tony Barnstone

Willis Barnstone
Lorna Knowles Blake
Kim Bridgford
Billy Collins
Leisha Douglas
Barry Ergang
Ross A. Gay
Soheila Ghaussy This marks an author's first online publication
Miranda Girard This marks an author's first online publication
Myrna Goodman This marks an author's first online publication
Susan Gubernat
Heidi Hart
Jay Leeming This marks an author's first online publication
Anne Marie Macari

Patricia O'Hara
John Poch
Michael Salcman
Patricia Smith
A.E. Stallings

Gerald Stern
Joyce Sutphen
Jeet Thayil
Meredith Trede This marks an author's first online publication

 

This marks an author's first online publication Miranda Girard graduated from Maryland Institute College of Art in May 2006 with a General Fine Arts major and a minor in Creative Writing. Winner of the Fire Nine poetry contest (an annual MICA student poetry journal) and recipient of the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize in 2006, she completed her first collection of poems Sipping a Hip in May. She is currently teaching and performing dance, writing a larger book of poems, and working on figure and landscape oil paintings.

Ninety-Eight Year Old Cousin Alice And Her Photo Collection    Click to hear in real audio


"Kids used to the shake 'em down with their bats,"
Alice says, eying the dense apple tree.
She grinds her chair when one slaps the grass,
"My Herb liked 'em but they was potatoes to me."

"Here's a picture of him and Georgy mid-woof–
you can tell Herb's sicker cause the suit's too big,
and Georgy's tail's limp cause she fell off the roof.
Guess she thought she could fly since she sure could swim!"

Alice's old skin pleats a smirk 'til she spies
one of a plank-mouthed woman in a pansied shawl.
"My Mamma," she peeps, floating her left hand to her thigh,
and stares at her right—scabbed, twitching and balled.

She sighs at the next, "Myrtle sunnin' on the lawn.
Yeah she loved her who-dunnits. That's my Mamma. She's gone."

 

 

Miranda Girard: Poetry
Copyright ©2006 The Cortland Review December 2006 FeatureThe Cortland Review