Cynthia Linville has lived in London, New York, San Francisco, and outside of
Washington DC but returned to live in her hometown of Sacramento. She
has taught in the English Department at California State University,
Sacramento since 2000. Linville served as Poetry Editor of Poetry Now from
2008-2010 and has served as Managing Editor of Convergence: an online
journal of poetry and art (www.convergence-journal.com) since 2008.
Ms. Linville is active in the Sacramento poetry scene, occasionally hosting
readings at SPC, Luna’s, the Crocker, the Vox art gallery, and other
locations. She frequently reads her work in northern California, often in
collaboration with musicians, and has received three mini-grants from
Poets & Writers.
Her work has appeared in many publications and several anthologies,
including Late Peaches and the first three volumes of Sacramento Voices.
Her two books of collected poems, The Lost Thing (2012) and Out of Reach
(2014), are available from Cold River Press. Cynthia has been nominated
for a Pushcart and has been a featured artist on Sacramento365:
http://www.sacramento365.com/featured-local-artist-july-2014-2/ She
invented a poetic form, the Linvillanelle, which is profiled here:
http://sacpoetrynow.wordpress.com/2012/05/26/local-poetic-forms-and-
a-contest/
Cynthia has been writing since she could write. In first grade, she won first
place for her short story about a girl whose wish that chocolate pudding
would flow out of all the faucets is granted – and who then has to save the
town from the disaster that ensues. At 15, one of her poems was published
in a national teen magazine, and she began studying poetry with Dennis
Schmitz at age 18.
A music aficionado with a theater background, she is usually out and about
supporting the arts.
Sibyl Marston
You introduce me to your new girlfriend.
Her hair smells like crayons:
turquois, sea-green, and black.
Her mouth, pale and hungry
her eyes, cobalt blue –
already burning into you.
At a glance I can see –
underneath that shiny mermaid suit
she is all nails, bone, and teeth.
I nod my polite “hello”
then, frothy drink in hand,
pull up a beach chair
on the sand –
ready to watch
the shipwreck.
– Originally published in WTF #26 Summer 2015
Because he was my piano,
a place I called home; carved
from mahogany wood or angels,
an ivory shrine of intricate keys
held in perfect order from cheek to rim
that unlocked the song in me where
no melody ever played that way before.
Because his heart was a metronome
of beautiful secrets shared, a pyramid
for hidden tombs long buried but never
forgotten, his body unparalleled in regalia
no matter the agedness of sunlight’s
wear, or the unbearable shifting from lust
to relief that occurs when life takes over.
Because his voice was limitless
with a myriad of notes forcing memories
to pierce through that breath-dead harpsichord
yet once more, hoping to penetrate what used
to be, as if my same soul remained—
but because he was my piano, he was
a place I could sit and linger, lament
my way through old music and broken rolls
until rotating pins finally bore through,
became unfastened and a never-ending
roundabout of love pressed past
the bridge into some kind
of sacred vibration.
