Storyteller of the Week

 Margaret R. Sáraco 

 

 

 

A storyteller, writing at the crossroads of poetry, fiction, and memoir, Margaret R. Sáraco’s poetry and short stories appear in many anthologies and literary journals: Kerning/A Space for Words, Panoply, Exit 13, Verse Virtual, The Path Literary Magazine, Book of Matches, Greening the Earth, Lips Poetry Magazine, Ovunque Siamo, and more.
 
Margaret received a nomination for a Pushcart Prize and has been recognized three times in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest. She has recorded video poems for Poetry of Protest and Struggle, Writing the Land, and Poets Wear Prada, amongst others. A poetry editor for the Platform Review, she enjoys creating and joining poetry communities, performing spoken word, and leading writing workshops.
 
She lives in Montclair, NJ with her husband, Alex Polner, who painted the cover and drew the interior illustrations for her latest book, Even the Dog Was Quiet (Human Error Publishing, 2023). Their children live with their partners in the Olympic Peninsula, Washington and Cincinnati, Ohio, and continue to inspire her as they embark on their journeys. She holds a BFA in Theater Arts (Syracuse University), plus two masters’ degrees in Women’s Studies (CUNY Graduate Center) and Mathematics (Montclair State University.)
 
After teaching middle school math and writing for 27 years, Margaret retired and released If There Is No Wind (Human Error Publishing, 2022.) Thirteen months later, Even the Dog Was Quiet was published. She is always looking for her next adventure.


By Editor Sharon Waller Knutson

I was impressed by Margaret Saraco’s stellar signature storyteller style. I’ll let her poems speak for themselves.

Fixer Upper
 
I have so much in common with my old colonial house.
Nothing is to code everything needs to be adjusted.
 
“Unfortunate,” the contractor says, “but the window opening
is too large and needs to have a special order.”
 
“The pipes they used for heating are water pipes,” the plumber says.
“Need to be replaced. Some burst in the walls, which is why you have drips.”
 
“The chimney collapsed. Your house could have burned down.
Didn’t you notice the ash on the walls?”
 
There are the dangling wires, cracking walls, rotting front porch,
bowing stained-glass windows, and splintering floors.
 
After 30 years, we think we’re prepared for non-standard talk.
We replace materials as labor costs rise.
 
Meanwhile, I watch the heart monitor in my stress test.
“Could be a pump in your heart,” the doctor says.
 
“Outgoing or incoming?” I ask, visualizing my organ.
The numbers remain steady. I am normal and giddy like I got an A+.
 
But the truth is I am breathless 15 minutes after the tests,
when I used to swim for 45 or hike for 3 hours without a blip.
 
I remember mom saying she couldn’t walk the few steps from the kitchen
to the dining room without gasping. Her heart failed at 90.
 
Maybe I’m just getting old.
 
The problem is, I know there is a problem. I’ve seen it before.
knowing when something is wrong because I know.

Sitting on the gurney, ready to leave when my BP normalizes
the doctor removes wiring and sends me off with another referral.
 
I return to my non-standard home in my non-standard body
that refuses to act like others in my demographic column and row.
 
Me and my house refuse old age until it catches up to us
and the contractors and doctors must be called in to lend a hand.



Inspired

Old in her thirties, our 11th grade English teacher Mrs. Block
walks among us, not quite 5 feet tall in heels, soft-spoken,
in a 1970s tweed suit with a pen lodged behind her ear
another clipped to her blouse, chalky hands twirling
strands of brown and gray hair as she speaks.
 
Together we transport to other times and places,
explore themes, metaphors, similes, and symbols
grabbing at them like ripened apples to be plucked.
Though not a radical, she exposes a literary world
where we find rebels waiting to be discovered
in the cannon and beyond.
 
Her love of Dickenson, Shakespeare, and Melville
pushes us to the edge of an ivy-covered wall we climb,
tangle in vines as she implores us to watch
for crumbling mortar and loose bricks.
 
The entire structure may collapse as tendrils
wind their way into small cracks.
Mrs. Block sets us in motion, a lost generation
stuck in teenage maelstroms and
cultural upheavals on our personal journeys.
 
The leftover flower children of the post-revolution
follow her into unknown territories.
And Mrs. Block, not quite 5 feet tall in heels,
soft-spoken, giant in stature, lights the path,
lantern in hand, waving us forward.
 


Pine Scent
 
we gather pine branches in our backyard
bring them inside and lay them on the kitchen table
 
you cry while I wash the white sap
sticking to your fingers so you can suck your thumb
 
we celebrate our first winter solstice adorning trees
with cranberries, nuts, seeds, and popcorn
 
you carry a book outside and recite a poem
from memory but make believe you are reading it
 
so cold, you, me and your dad, rush inside,
peel off boots and coats
 
sit around the glowing fireplace
drink hot cocoa and eat orange slices
 
add pinecones to the fire that glow orange
then yellow before falling into flame
 
we read stories aloud and cuddle
at the edges of the hearth
 
you curl yourself up next to the cats
put your arm around their furry bodies
 
the drifting scent of fresh pine
the sound of crackling wood lulls us to sleep
 
our knitted family in the living room
warm on a cold winter solstice
 
as we greet the changing season
with a peacefulness, newly discovered.


Starlight Serenade
 
The only person I saw in
that orchard of faces
was you in my dream
and memories of dormitory
bulletin boards
stuck in my mind,
or was it in a classroom?
and you laughed and
I caught your twinkle.
 
Now, while snow
falls on spruce trees,
outside my window
our children play.
 
That first time
I saw you in an orchard
of faces was so long ago,
feels like yesterday.


The Spirit in Sara’s Clay

We find a bowl displayed on a shelf
at Sara’s ceramic studio in Nova Scotia.
“Use it with flowers. Place a frog in the center,
then stick a rose, a tulip, or a daffodil in it.”
She chooses an iris from her garden
where the tallest wildflowers reach skyward.
Sara, with her red cropped hair,
and infectious smile allows her pottery to sell itself.
“Use it for keys, children’s toys, eyeglasses
but don’t use this bowl for food.”

As we complete the sale, I search her weathered hands
for meaning. I imagine she might process her soil into clay.
Do her fingers tremble without clay to hold?
Does she cut beets, blueberries, and spinach
from her garden to mix glazes fired in her kiln?
How does she make the deep green,
seawater color we hold in our hands?
This was many years ago, but Sara sends a letter every year
sharing life in Tatamagouche with photos of her new creations.

Our glazed green bowl patiently waits on the kitchen shelf
for the chance to hold another single stem from our flower bed,
free-standing in a bit of water, stuck in a frog.
In the meantime, two old baseballs,
one a homerun ball from batting practice at Citi Field
and the other a remarkable little league shut out,
nest proudly.  I don’t think Sara would mind.