Thursday, 23 March 2017

A poem by Michael Paul Hogan

Manhattan


The dress she wore shone like a movie screen
before the movie. Like parachute silk.
Or the label on a bottle of vodka.
A collapsed star
absorbing color.

She was alone, that much was obvious
from the wary looks the other women gave her,
but her detachment was something deeper,
the loneliness of the vampire,
of Dracula’s daughter.

I watched her across the room,
holding but not drinking a pale blue cocktail
and staring intently at a (genuine) Mondrian
as though recognizing
her own abstraction.








Born in London in 1964, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet, journalist and literary essayist whose work has appeared extensively in the USA, UK, India and China. His poems have appeared in over thirty literary magazines and in six collections, the most recent of which, Chinese Bolero, illustrated by the great contemporary painter Li Bin, was published in 2015. After sixteen years living and working in Asia (most recently as Features Editor for Dalian Today in NE China) he recently relocated to England, where he is putting together a collection of short stories written over the last few years.

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