Free and open to the public
Inprint is proud to serve as the host for the First Fridays Reading Series. The First Fridays Reading Series is the oldest poetry series in Houston and was organized by Robert Clark from 1975-2019. Today, First Fridays are curated and hosted by local community members.
Readings are held on the first Friday of each month. The program will include a featured reader, followed by an open mic.
REBECCA DANELLY completed her MFA in Creative Writing at Texas State University. She’s currently co-editor of poetry at “table//Feast Mag” and has published poems in numerous journals and anthologies, including Glass Mountain, The Ocotillo Review, and the Porter House Review. After serving eight years in the United States Air Force, Rebecca graduated with a BA in English/Creative Writing from the University of Houston in 1999. That year she won the Howard Moss Undergraduate Poetry Award. Since then she has taught, raised children, trained dogs, organized poetry and creative writing workshops, and worked on her craft. In 2016, she was chosen as a juried poet for the Houston Poetry Festival and was published in the Festival Anthology.
“That Boat Don’t Float”
by Rebecca Danelly
Certainly not the rowboat in the lake
at Camp Bluebonnet. It was well past floating,
half-sunk in the russet mud of what was not
much more than a cattle tank. Home to water
moccasins and box turtles, the bygone vessel
of Mad Pierre whose bygone stalking of
campers thrilled us around the bonfire when
Father Rich and counsellor Clyde mimed
with a pine branch wielded as a bloody axe
the horror the lumberjack wreaked from his cabin.
The story was Mad Pierre wrecked his boat fleeing
the sheriff. Its carcass was proof enough to believe
what was blatantly untrue.
That boat don’t float, I think, watching
the news. The governor asks us to believe
what is blatantly untrue. Some people say
you shouldn’t make the deaths of children
political. But, I’m going to. The Texas
governor asks us to be calm, to see reason,
to pray while passing laws that make the purchase
of assault rifles easy. Arguments
are made and forgotten; money and power
won’t listen. Listen, Mad Pierre’s boat
is still sunk in the mud. A snake skims its
jointless way into the murky lake, its pearly
mouth just above the swimmer’s wake.
“I’m not one to praise life’s little joys”
by Rebecca Danelly
I’m not one to praise life’s little joys,
those be here now moments that self-help books
I despise go on about, but today I walked
out on the balcony and the barn swallow
on the railing perched there unfluttered
and turned its head just so slightly as if
it deigned to acknowledge my presence, but
couldn’t be less bothered, then turned back
to keep watch on its demesne. I always think
of joy as grand, like the rain of confetti at a
ticker tape parade at the end of a war, not
the barn swallow’s nest on the fire sprinkler
where she sits proudly on her eggs. Today,
joy is birdshit bright white on a dull wall.