POEMS of SEVEN POETS
(Spring 2017, Volume 5)
(Spring 2017, Volume 5)
Charles Tarlton
Song of the Darkness By day, night and that which night illumines... - Wallace Stevens Was that dark fell down so softly, ran like a chalk eraser over the sunlight? Was it black and thick and voiceless, too? Was it black and silent and cold? And lonely? O black! O darkness! Have you ever felt the stars when they come down close, and seem to hang impudently near the ground and you could almost touch them, or wear them? Are the stars hot or cold? Black night and its darkness more than merely opposites of day and light; they are the end of everything. Lights out! You wake from the dark into the light or wake up in the dark. Can you tell? I walked out into the middle of the night; there were no stars, no clouds washed the moon, and tree shadows were thick. I thought I remembered how the light threw itself on things, falling across shadows. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
William Conelly
The Long View Wasperton Lane Warwickshire Wind runs downhill through riffled ranks of forage grass to hedgerows grown as holding banks for sheep, and pooled with running sky, the bramble shade and pasturage serenely lie. Sheep nod and eat, their cowled white necks inclined toward slaughter, nod and champ till they are eaten, and only see nearsightedly the riffled falls of wind that neither sour nor sweeten. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Natalie Crick
Daylight Dawn gave us only grey, Then threadbare crags of cloud That fell apart to rain. Mist-crowned and veiled, The gaunt forms of buildings Throng about us, hulking In a quiet parade across the beaches, Drowned to their ashen foundations. The moon waits to be released, Safe beneath the black lid of night That rests upon The evening’s jaded hinge. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Des Clark-Walker
The Call of the Water Bird Lake Rotoiti, New Zealand Dry rushes sway in the dawn breeze Leaves twist and jangle, water dances, Far on the lake the water bird calls. When the sun is up the wind drops The dawn colors fade Then the sky is blue and the lake is blue And between them is the green undulating shore. What is real seems unreal And a dream can last a decade yet be nothing As the wind is nothing when it drops. Far on the lake the water bird calls As the small boat divides the rushes And glides over the mirror surface Like a leaf on mercury. For a while it stays there drifting around slowly They are free and no sound breaks the silence. Out on the lake the water bird shrills As they row to the hot springs On the distant bank. Vapor coils, swells, rolls against the nothingness of air Pushing to escape the earth Like the genie in the lamp, But the hot sun is pervasive And turns the damp mist to nothing Like night’s shadow vanishing at dawn. It is as though there are forbidden things Which we can never see Mysterious and hidden regions in our lives Which cannot be focused. Naked they lie in the hot pools milky with Sulphur. Slowly they drift, turn and relax, Two creatures in the soft arms of the old sea, The plasma of the ancient world. Sometimes during isolation Because of stillness, silence and tranquility A feeling can suffuse Like sunlight surging from behind a cloud Or liquid welling in a hot spring. At the end of the languid day their spirits are rallied by echoing calls of Baillon’s crake as the harsh cries strike hard on the anvils of their being. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Katie McMorris
Trespassing on the Construction Site for the New Hospital 2:30am and your body is a pendulum. We dance between the scaffolding, naked bulbs illuminating our outlines as the wind jeers us on through tarps screaming against raw metal beams. It started as a dare. My eyes tiny monasteries flickering and full of prayer. Does this scare you? You say. Cranes wink above you, inviting you to scamper over wires over wires over plastic buckets full of screws. I cross myself, you straddle crossbeams, your chopstick arms pivoting perpendicular to your heels, you the eagle and everything below balancing on my finger. You say, you know we’ll be back, someday. We might even ride the elevator. It will be right here. You’ll push the wheelchair, I’ll push the buttons. But for now we leave our set of tire tracks, rolling over nails over nails over cigarettes kissing the sand. What if it isn’t ready when I fall? They need to lay the tiles down the sterile halls, install the ventilators. They haven’t made your bed, your linens your linens are still soiled with the earth. The gown won’t fit you yet. You call down to me: Are you coming too? Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Cordelia Hanemann
Lost Doll Doll, now kept in the attic chest of treasures salvaged against time, stares out of broken eyes in sightless witness. She, who cannot die, even sleep, shudders her plaintive maa-maa across the years, a wave that begins along one shore, crashes into another, an umbilicus of memory, taunting with visions of what was and what was not. Disguised as a toy, the little demon grows old but never grows up, emblem of the girl lost to dreams that became nightmares, to fictions that conjure pumpkins into coaches, frogs and beasts into princes, and Snow White saved. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |
Sara T. Baker
On Finding a Hummingbird’s Skull I dreamt a crow called “Death, Death,” woke to cawing, cawing still as I labored in the earth, the wind a hot dry breath, the bees and ants my nearest neighbors. The sun burned through the shifting leaves, my sweat broke into rivulets. I saw the sparrows in the eaves, and brushed the spiders’ dew-draped nets. I found a hummingbird’s bleached skull, whorls for eyes, a needle beak and held it, weightless, as I mulled the life it held, the peace I seek. And learn that death is lighter than I thought, and quieter and much less fraught. Biographical information, favorite public domain poem. |