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Hello! I'm a writer from central New York who has bipolar disorder. Among other topics, I write about mental illness and writing. I have short stories published in Lynx Eye, Lost Coast Review, The Outrider Review, Sliver of Stone Magazine, The Mondegreen, The Linnet's Wings, Cobalt Review, Breath & Shadow, The Round Up, Postscripts to Darkness, Masque & Spectacle, and several other journals. I have a poem in The Poeming Pigeon, essays about mental illness in The Ram Boutique and Amygdala Literary Magazine, and an essay in Parts Unbound: Narratives of Mental Illness & Health, a book that was published by Lime Hawk Literary Arts Collective. My story "Santa Lucia" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I've written three novels entitled Purple Loosestrife, Hoping It Might Be So, and Dark and Bright, all of which are as yet unpublished. I'm working on a memoir about my experiences with bipolar disorder. I have a B.A. in English from SUNY Buffalo and an M.A. in English from SUNY College at Brockport. I hope you enjoy your visit to my blog!

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

A Poem

By Emily Glossner Johnson

I have lived in the wing of a cemetery angel,
Along rain-soaked wrought iron fences gleaming
In the grey light of September afternoon,
Piano music and yellowing leaves foretelling early November flakes of snow.

You have lived on nameless roads in ghost towns,
In the still space between ripples of water,

I have lived in the bare-wood sloping walls of a lamp-lit attic,
A taste of chocolate mint on my fingers,
Candies for the grown-ups who talk late around the table.

You have found me walking on arctic streets, purposeful, following the shape
Of a northern Jesus through my dreamland of glaciers and sapphire lakes.
I have listened to limbs banging and straining, voices cursing;
I have worn socks and hospital robes, and you have understood.

You have been a paradox of blood, breath, muscle, bone, and shadow.
A shadow of a bird flying over me,
I have lived in the branches of trees, the heady scent
Of spring earth, earthworms, and violets,
And the childhood cottony clouds on the horizon.

You are the birdsong, the axis, my reason and my way.
I am your arctic guide, a bonfire on an icy shore, your home.

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