No Such Thing as Distance

By Karen Paul Holmes

What marvelous poems these are, and how complete a collection. Like a circus aerialist who makes us gasp one moment and laugh the next, the poet takes us from her immigrant father’s Macedonian roots to her own maturity, to the life of a woman who is smart and well-read yet knows her way around a Coney Island hot dog and finds the attention

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terrapin Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998215983

Karen Paul Holmes

Karen Paul Holmes is the author of the poetry collections No Such Thing As Distance (Terrapin Press February 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich Press 2014). She was named a Best Emerging Poet by Stay Thirsty Magazine in 2016 and received an Elizabeth George Foundation poetry grant in 2012. Her publishing credits include Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Crab Orchard Review, Poetry East, Atlanta Review, and The Southern Poetry Anthology Vol 5: Georgia, among others.Formerly the VP of Communications at a global financial services company, Karen is now a freelance business writer, poet, and "roving" writing teacher. She founded and hosts the Side Door Poets and a monthly writers' night out with an open mic.

Book preview

I.

They Say We Are Not the Body

And they’re probably right, but     

when I broke through the railing,

then fell eight feet off the deck,

it sure felt like my body. The snap

of humerus. Bruises coloring 

my right hip like a world map.

The heart injured from falling

out of marriage

is not an out-of-order heart.

It still beats the slow meter of grief

or anger’s adrenalin drum.

Once I heard a guru discuss

out-of-body episodes.

Floating, he didn’t even want

to be that boring thing below.

He told of those

under anesthesia who’d watched 

their own surgeries,

then recounted details only   

a doctor would know.

And what about the body asleep

in Mother’s hospice bed?

I sensed she was already

in the green room, stepping

into a turquoise dress,

fluffing her hair,

blotting her new lipstick,

Fire Engine Red.

Capturing the Scent of Rain

—A perfumery in India has bottled the fragrance

Our ancestors taught us to love

the scent because we need rain

to survive

to raise gardens—golden squash

lima beans, red tulips

to ripple lakes, cleanse us

under blue-white waterfalls

to lick wet lips, to drink in, soothe us

sing to us: the trickling down

windows, patter songs

on tin roofs, on fallen leaves.

Scientists cannot capture love

nor prove it      but have found

the scent of rain:

an oil they named petrichor     

—from the Greek petra (stone)

and ichor (ethereal blood of gods)—

released

when raindrops touch porous stone

birthing pinpoint bubbles

which fizz like champagne

lift the essence

—blood of the stone—into the wind 

to our senses.    The elixir deepens

when the land is dry and rain is light:

Scent and sound intoxicate lovers.

And during drought

there’s still a dab behind the ear

or in the hollow

above the wishbone.

How I Would Change the Endings of Perfect Tragedies

I cannot watch Romeo and Juliet without hoping this time Juliet’s lids will flutter before Romeo sips his poison, nor read The House of Mirth without wanting to shake some sense into Lily, beg her to forego the excess sleeping draught so Lawrence can declare his love the next day. And when fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde. Just go somewhere safe with her forever. Yes, that would negate the enthralling Immolation Scene, where she sings the longest aria in all opera, rides her horse into your funeral pyre, and burns up Valhalla, consuming all the gods. And yes, your deaths leave humankind redeemed by love, which I’m all for. But these days, the real world has all the drama I can stand, what with lovers leaving, dogs limping, bills piling, politicians stabbing, big toes stubbing, wrinkles slicing deeper and deeper into my face, once as smooth as an apple fresh from the tree.

Macedonian Wedding, Flint, Michigan

I wanted to marry a Macedonian

but the guys right-off-the-boat—deodorant