Sol Magazine's
Poet Laureate 2004 Edition
© 2004 SOL MAGAZINE
http://www.sol-magazine.org


FIRST PLACE

SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA

SuzAnne C. Cole - 2004 Sol Magazine Poet Laureate

BIOGRAPHY

SuzAnne C. Cole, a retired instructor in English at Houston Community College, is an award-winning poet and writer, and has published more than 270 essays, plays, poems and short stories in at least 170 different publications including commercial and literary magazines, anthologies, newspapers and the poet-favoring Sol Magazine. SuzAnne was a juried poet at the Houston Poetry Fest in 2003 and will be a featured guest poet at the 2004 event.  She has won a Writer's Digest personal poetry contest and a haiku festival in Japan.  She also published To Our Heart's Content: Meditations for Women Turning 50.  SuzAnne and her husband have three grown sons and one grandson. They enjoy hiking vacations, most recently in the Yorkshire Dales in England; future plans include Patagonia.

Favorite Quote:  "But the nature of man is not the nature of silence.  Words are the thunders of the mind."  —Mary Oliver, "The Leaf and the Cloud"

COMMENTS 

SuzAnne C. Cole is a powerful poet equipped with a master's set of well honed tools.  Her suggestive, strong and original voice shares material shaped with rich language, as her words turn on clear imagery to create honest portrayals.  Beautifully crafted original themes are woven with many layers of meaning.  The reader's imagination is captured with a net of well-woven poetic mechanics such as subtle rhythm and alliteration, enjambment, careful word selection, humor, irony and contrasts.  Exceptional writing with small details pulled from everyday life give readers something concrete; yet while this poet also leaves an impression of something lost, something being searched for, she can also give a sense of closure.  Vivid, witty strings of hyperbole combine with more serious passages.  Unafraid to unpack powerful emotional experiences with which she stamps images on our minds, this poet is a fine, well-practiced craftswoman, who teaches writing with every line.  In "Bridging:  A Woman's Life," SuzAnne deftly handles metaphor in the way a welder handles a welding iron, with care and strength.  She gives a remarkably candid, painfully honest and insightful description of life's cycle, highlighted by a powerful allegory at the poem's stellar ending.  The imagery is startling in its openness, yet at the same time leaves a sense of reticence, of something still being held back.  Word choices are splendid, with a nice development of the “bridge” motif as the poem progresses through time, drawing the reader ever onward, encouraging thought about woman's role in family and society.  In "The Trucker's Story," strong visual content of the narrative holds interest and stirs the imagination through a complex experience of tension, mood and anxiety.  Excellently crafted alliterative language.  Wonderful writing, fine storytelling.  "Eating War" shows SuzAnne's writing strength as she uses a well thought out metaphor to powerfully deliver this poem's stark message.  Unafraid to face repulsive topics, Suzanne shows a fine control over language.  "In My House" poses an interesting question to the reader.  Is this a moment of honesty leaking out of the back yard midden to darken the glittering brass of the public persona of this poet?  Or is this the imagination of the poet hard at work creating yet another seemingly intimate world for her readers to explore?  We may never know, for Suzanne is a strongly forthright yet disturbingly reticent poet who leads her readers in a new direction with each new poem.  What an amazing journey!  Thank you, SuzAnne C. Cole, for the remarkable ride. 


Bridging:  A Woman's Life

In the beginning, to her husband her body is a
bridge of gold drawn up against the hordes.
For her children she becomes a bridge to the world,
their guide from familiar to foreign,
her strength a footbridge across chaos.
Later, her body-bridge, stretched thin,
sags as grown children march on.  On the other
side the youngest waves, kneels, flares a match.
Weary cross-beams, trusses blaze.

© 2004 SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA



The Trucker's Story

On the bridge approach, another car going too slow.
I pull around to pass, look over.  Driver's a woman,
maybe young, dark hair hanging over her face.
Checking the mirror, I see her car stop on the bridge.
She gets out, moves fast toward the barrier.
I swear, stomp hard on the brakes.

Running fast, I'm there just as she pulls herself up,
stands on the crossbar.  No, no, I shout, no, don't,
reaching, grabbing a handful of her pants.
Silk or something, they slip right through my grip.
There, on the damp railing between my hands,
the print of her bare feet remains for a couple of breaths,
then disappears.

Sometimes there's just nothing you can do.

© 2004 SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA



Eating War

Blood stains my hornlike beak, soils my glossy breast
I have been eating war.

Far below survivors stumble on, dragging
salvaged goods, eyes downcast, disbelieving.
Homes, young men gone. . . daylight going.

I swoop down to dine on carrion.
My beak savages unresisting flesh,
greedily devouring a nation in gobbets.

When I lift my yellow-eyed head, spread my wings
to soar, my meal of war weighs me down.

© 2004 SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA



Water Bug Skates the Stream

mindless of the miracle.
If, proud of its performance, it paused to ponder,
would it sink?

Water bug skates the stream, perceiving liquid as a solid--
we experience memory, family, society, as reliable--
two species sliding on water.

© 2004 SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA



In My House

Tiny empty squares of an incorrectly translated file march in rows across my monitor. Blocky little rooms in abundance but no content.  Emptiness.  House as the self, dark teeming basement unconscious, kitchen brain perpetually cooking, master bedroom denying mastery of sexuality, hard varnished front door with glittering brass the public me, back yard garbage midden, rusted car resting on blocks. In my house are many rooms for all the I-am parts, each no greater no grander no dirtier no less than another although some I do not like, some I adore.  Inhabitants, roomers of the self, often incorrectly translated.

© 2004 SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX, USA


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