Ten Most Read Poets 2023 at North of Oxford as of National Poetry Month

Three Poems by T. J. Masluk

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/01/07/three-poems-by-t-j-masluk/

Three Poems by Akshaya Pawaskar

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/02/06/three-poems-by-akshaya-pawaskar/

Calder at the Top of the Stairs by John Timpane

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/02/06/calder-at-the-top-of-the-stairs-by-john-timpane/

Our Children Are in the Fields Today by Cydney Brown

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/02/06/our-children-are-in-the-fields-today-by-cydney-brown/

Two Poems by Charles Carr

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/03/06/two-poems-by-charles-carr/

Two Poems by Cameron Morse

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/01/07/two-poems-by-cameron-morse/

Two Poems by Evan Anders

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/02/06/two-poems-by-evan-anders-2/

September in the Meadow by Robert Milby

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/01/07/september-in-the-meadow-by-robert-milby/

Purple Flowering Grief by Brian Builta

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/01/07/purple-flowering-grief-by-brian-builta/

Hotel Krupa Lounge by Mark J. Mitchell

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2023/03/06/hotel-krupa-lounge-by-mark-j-mitchell/

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Hotel Krupa Lounge by Mark J. Mitchell

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Hotel Krupa Lounge 

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The desk is vacant. She slumps in—damp, sad

from an old bop tune that never leaves her head.

She looks for mail. Sees none. Hears one rogue note—

a piano. Then she feels she’s not alone.

Elevator buttons get pushed. The mean guy

from three. A second note that almost sighs—

a low C, she thinks, coming through the wall.

They climb in the small cage. He smells of salt

and fish. It’s a waltz tune, low keyed. The whole

ride up she knows it. Wants to sing it slow

and blue. Guy steps off, uneven, at three.

She waits for her floor, punches L just to see

how long that wisp of a song can play on.

It circles her from four all the way down.

She leans her ear to the wall just beside

gold mail boxes. It’s there. She feels a slight

vibration from a bass key, Hears a click—

a foot tap, a cigarette getting lit

somewhere within plaster. It’s “Danny Boy”

now, very soft and slow. Another guy

enters. The pipes stop calling. She believes,

for now, at least, a hidden lounge, unseen,

unseeable, lives in a room with no door.

Maybe next to the shaft. Someone performs—

Only at night? Never noticed. Who else

hears keys—that Bill Evans touch. A bell

rings. Elevator’s back. The dark notebook man

walks out. Doesn’t lift his eyes. His hand

writing, writing all the time. Can’t keep a beat.

She’ll ride down and up all night. She won’t sleep.

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Mark J. Mitchell has worked in hospital kitchens, fast food, retail wine and spirits, conventions, tourism, and warehouses. An award-winning poet, he is the author of five full-length poetry collections, and six chapbooks. His latest collection is Something To Be from Pski’s Porch Publishing. He can be found reading his poetry here: https://www.youtube.com/ @markj.mitchell4351

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