​Ira Schaeffer, winner of the 2016 Galway Kinnell Poetry contest, was also the recipient of the 2015 Editor’s Choice Loft Chapbook Award.

In addition, Ira’s recent poetry has appeared in Origami Poems Project, Penumbra; On the Dark Side: An Anthology of Fairy Tale Poetry; Tastes like Pennies; 50 Haiku; Wising Up Press; and Silver Birch Press.  His poem, "Primavera," was a 2014 nomination for the Pushcart Prize. 

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Walking the Steere Hill Preserve 

Once there were orchards
freighted with abundance--
windfalls of red and gold.
It was a slow time of hands
and horses bearing crates
piled high on wagons held
steady over ruts and stones. 

I walk the old farm road
passed meadows of indiangrass
and Queen Anne’s lace swayed 
by their  elegance. The sky 
is lavender and swallows 
lighten me with their curving
grace. The sun tastes fine.
I think I can fly.

But gnats think otherwise, 
and I fall then retreat
to a path through the woods.
Not much light but lots of quiet--
pine needles underfoot and tiny white moths
falling like a weird snow.
One finds my palm and rests
nearly weightless, profound
in its inconsequence.

My breath gives it motion
but not life. One go-round to a customer,
I say to the trees, to my moth
with its golden eye,
and its dead and dying tribe
scattered among the leaves.
I let mine drop--
then backtrack to the meadow. 

Hunger Moon

I decided to give fasting a try:
twenty-four hours of lean times 
enacted on the ritual stage 
of Yom Kippur— at twelve
I was ready for this test of manhood
and, anyway, I was a natural:
home-schooled 
with a focus on privation.

I gathered with friends 
under the Whitestone bridge.
Our conversation bit into notions 
of the starved body devouring itself
and the frenzy of piranhas. 
None of us spoke of grace or atonement.
We tried to kill hunger with wit— 
waiting for the first star at sunset.

The wafered moon 
offered nothing bright—not yet, 
so we talked 
about Kennedy’s promise
to take us to the moon
and the dream life of our futures.
We looked up. Stars
here and there, the sky was darkening.

Most of my friends left for fancy plates
of whitefish and honey cake,
a few for the cool burn
of schnapps. I stayed on.

Not God, but something else
held me. Quiet now, under the rush of cars, 
the sea returned with its tumble
of mirrored lights—the crazy gulls
were eating each sparkle, laughing 
at me and my angry house.      

I wanted to throw stones 
at the damn birds, crack the moon 
like a boiling egg. I picked up a rock. 
Lunatics, my sister called us, living 
in a fucking madhouse.

What could I do?    
I felt chilled, empty.
I dropped the stone, said goodbye
to the weird sky, 
and slowly made my way 
over the broken pavement,
into the thinning air.