Thursday, September 1, 2016

Commit To

Image of the Day:  Grey day in the city--and traffic, construction, utility work.  Driving just sucks.


What I'm reading:  Security Mom by Juliette Kayyem.  Landscape with Headless Mama by Jennifer Givhan.  Poems and fiction in the journal Cherry Tree, which I highly recommend.

I've got stacks and stacks of books I really want to read and yet can't seem to successfully read one completely.  I start reading a book, am enjoying it, and then hear about a book that sounds fantastic and go buy it on Amazon and then it sits in a pile in my house. I really don't see this changing any time soon, either.  I annoy myself.

So I took an on-line course for the month of August and didn't do very well in it.  I managed to write two poems out of the assigned four, and didn't comment nearly enough on the other participants' work.  Fail.  I think a weekly on-line course is as much time as I can commit to.  I've gotten a slew of rejections, but many have been very kind, asking me to submit again.  I also have a few acceptances which is also nice.  I have three poems here at Border Crossing, which is filled with amazing poems and writing. 

But I've started another Poem-A-Day group for September.  I've been getting like four or five poems from these monthly spurts of poetry and then stop for various reasons.  Which is something, I guess.


The Truth You Heard


The truth you heard is wrong, is happy-hung
absurd inside your dumb and rusty heart,
love-sick and goat-jaw at the seams, wet tongue
of God a quick surprise of stop and start
and does-not-care, and if inside the breath
on which you fall asleep a prayer abides
within your chest, the crusty shibboleth
of violent ends, of trust in smallish lies,
perhaps you start to doubt the stumbled halls
of dreams that render in dissolve, in mise
en scène
of box inside of box, so small
and so serene. So, then, the lie: a tree,
a sin, a careless whim, a flesh of rain,
and so the world, the loss, the lovely pain.


John Blair

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

For All You Returning Teachers

To the Student Who Asked Why He Earned a "C" on an Essay about Love
       
Because love has its own grammar,
its own sentences,
some that run-on too long,
others just fragments.
It uses a language
not always appropriate
or too informal,
and often lacks clarity.


Love is punctuated all wrong,
changes tenses abruptly,
relies heavily
on the first person,
can be redundant,
awkward,
full of unnecessary repetition.


Every word is compounded.
Every phrase, transitional.

Love doesn't always know the difference
between lie and lay,
its introductions sometimes
lack a well-developed thesis,
its claims go unfounded,
its ad-hominem attacks
call in question
its authority.


With a style that's inconsistent,
a voice either too critical
or too passive,
love is a rough draft
in constant need of revision,
whose conclusion
rarely gives any sense
of closure,
or reveals the lingering
possibilities of a topic
that always expects high praise,
and more often than not
fails to be anything
but average.


Clint Margrave

From Verse Daily Archives

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Strewn All Over

Image of the Day:  The mugginess felt on my skin and the cicada's metallic whine, like a hot wire searing my brain.

Happy July--it's hot and humid and the bugs are fierce--especially the black flies in the woods where we take our dog for her daily walk.  I haven't posted in a while--summer is particularly difficult to do so. 

But I won a scholarship to the Poets on the Coast writing retreat and I'm thrilled!! This is my very first writing retreat and I'm excited about going.  It will be quite a journey, both physically and mentally I'm sure.  I keep thinking of all the things I want to bring and how I want to write every second I'm there.  I know that's not possible and I have no idea what I am going to write, but at least I'll have time to explore. 

And I also purchased my very own (another first!) writing desk and know exactly where I want to put it in my house.  I have been using the kitchen island as my spot to write, but that's not exactly working.  I'm excited to have a place to put all my tools together--books and journals and computer--and have them not strewn all over the house. 

I've gotten some rejections recently:  from Adroit journal, but they at least singled out a poem they particularly liked; from Apple Valley Review, which had no commentary at all about my poems; and Outlook Springs, which included an amazing amount of nice things said about my submission.  So that was nice.  I got an acceptance from an anthology so we'll see how that comes along.

I've also signed up for a MOOC class on Whitman and Writing about War.  I haven't had a chance to finish viewing the first class, but what I've seen so far seems interesting.  Also I signed up for an on-line class at the Poetry Barn which starts in August and I hope I get a few poems from that. 

by Gregory Kimbrell
Nocturne (Tremors of the Earth)
       
Dear shadow, electric lights burn once more
throughout this remote valley, though night
arrived hours ago. Darkness will be restored
shortly. My only photograph of my brother
fell from the bedroom mantel and woke me
from the dream in which I visited his grave.
I always wanted to believe that the dead lay
in undisturbed sleep. You, shadow, become
still, listening to the footsteps and blunders
of the fearful who retire one after the other
in their homes above you. In the plane tree,
the owl straightens its feathers, compacting
its prey into a sphere of bone and gray hair.





Saturday, June 4, 2016

Just Yet

Image of the Day:  The large white swans in a nearby town's pond, sailing about like small white skiffs.


I received my contributor's copies from Zone 3, where I have my poem, "Abandoned Girl is Full of Words" and read a marvelous poem by Alyse Bensel about Plate 18 of Marie Sibylla Merian's .  So I sent her a fan letter via Facebook.  There's also a fabulous poem, "Bone Woman" by Aimee Baker that knocked my socks off.  I really love poetry and finding new poets.


Today I wrote another poem, sent of a packet of poems (coincidentally, three poems about Marie Sibylla Merian) for an anthology, and revised some of my other poems.  No rejections just yet.




Some Glad Morning





One day, something very old
happened again. The green
came back to the branches,
settling like leafy birds
on the highest twigs;
the ground broke open
as dark as coffee beans.


The clouds took up their
positions in the deep stadium
of the sky, gloving the
bright orb of the sun
before they pitched it
over the horizon.


It was as good as ever:
the air was filled
with the scent of lilacs
and cherry blossoms
sounded their long
whistle down the track.
It was some glad morning.





Thursday, June 2, 2016

Keeping Track

Image of the Day:  Buds of the Japanese purple irises, unopened and blade-like.


I'm trying to keep track of things I do (especially in the summer) to keep my poetry in motion, so to speak, on a day to day basis.  I do this in another area of my life, my karate, that helps me keep confident I'm working on my stuff while I learn new things and get tested on it. Otherwise, I'd feel overwhelmed and out of focus. So I'm hoping this makes me accountable to the poetry part of my life. 


Today I wrote in my daily journal, wrote a poem, sent out a book submission, a chapbook submission, and poetry subs to four journals, and commented (very briefly) on two other poems.  I also revised my poems while submitting.  I need to read some poems, next. Oh and last night, I got rejected from Sugar House Review.


All this is kind of rare for me.  But I am trying to follow Entropy's list of where to submit on a monthly basis. And I'm trying to send out my work to more places, more often.  I feel that I haven't been doing a very good job at that.  Also, I'm following Jac Jemc's blog which is all about where she gets rejected and that has made me feel better.  Other people get rejected all the time, and better writers, so I just need to suck it up. 


Another thing I'd like to be doing is applying for writing residencies, but that whole artist statement and reference part of it makes me hesitant.  But I'm going to set my sights on that in July and work towards getting to one of those.  We'll see how it goes. 




Maybe; maybe not


When I was a child I spoke as a thrush, I
thought as a clod, I understood as a stone,
but when I became a man I put away
plain things for lustrous, yet to this day
squat under hooves for kindness where
fetlocks stream with mud—shall I never
get it clear, down in the soily waters.


Denise Riley

Wednesday, June 1, 2016

My Poetry Today

Image of the Day:  Little red squirrel in my Asian Dogwood tree, squeaking continually. 


I joined another on-line poetry group today, but have not been able to write a poem of the day.  Trying to think of what I want to write about. 


Read some prompts from various books:  Wingbeats and The Daily Poet.  Read some poems from a Crab Orchard Review. 


Got an acceptance to Pittsburgh Poetry Review.  This week, I've gotten rejected from Tahoma Literary Review and Devil's Lake.


Submitted my manuscript to Black Lawrence Press's Open reading period. 


Checked on Duotrope--who's open and who's accepting/rejecting.  Was interested in one press, but bothered by some of their requirements about telling them how I am a poet.  The beginning of the month is always a good time to review what's going on.


Watched my submissions on Submishmash.  Slowly, slowly. 


Feeling that I need to be writing in my daily journal much more often than I am.  Feeling that I need to read much more poetry than I am.  Finding inspiration.






We Return Sparkling
 by Felicia Zamora
       
Spun                this tendency to whirl, tendency to fall
gossamer. Thread what must pull back: my muscle mimics
your muscle gorges energy & loves nothing, loves nothing.
Axis of spine, gravity possesses                              imprints
Brief on lungs, vocal cords, belly: a charcoal sketch
against the light                              silhouette wipes
in the turn.        We burn out of & skin another universe
encases this                headache inching outside the head. Our
once watery lungs                      the revolving lure of sea
brine in our nails, ocean of aortic sack—feel us beating: waves.
A sky is a sky is blue veins. We return                sparkling
& out of breath              tethered to gorgeous rules.


Saturday, April 30, 2016

Last Day of April Last Day of Poetry Month

Unfinished
 by Sharon Olinka
        
Your dream voice emerges.
I'm getting ready, love. Warmth
of your mouth. Sunlit orange
butterfly wings. And weight
of your belly against mine.
As if you never fell.
Your cane, painkillers.
Finally, talk of a wheelchair.



Years later, I fell
on my face and hands.
Permanent damage.
Weakened left hand.
Somewhere, if you still breathe,
your mane of hair
white now. Almost eighty.



In this city of dust
my plants drink, never get enough.
With my good hand,
I do what needs to be done.
Carefully lift a cup of water
to each plant on my patio.
Caterpillars ate
my passion flower vine.
There was one
butterfly. I never saw it.




Thursday, April 14, 2016

Poetry Poetry Poetry

April in MaineMay Sarton

The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.

But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.

There will be no going back.

Monday, April 11, 2016

Poetry Swoon

One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII

By Pablo Neruda 1904–1973 Pablo Neruda
Translated By Mark Eisner
    
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,   
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:   
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,   
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries   
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,   
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose   
from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,   
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,   
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,   
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.


Pablo Neruda, “One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII” from The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems, edited by Mark Eisner. Copyright © 2004 City Lights Books.

Source: The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems (City Lights Books, 2004)

from the Poetry Foundation

Saturday, April 9, 2016

Adaptation

Crusoe in England

By Elizabeth Bishop 
     
A new volcano has erupted,
the papers say, and last week I was reading   
where some ship saw an island being born:   
at first a breath of steam, ten miles away;   
and then a black fleck—basalt, probably—
rose in the mate’s binoculars
and caught on the horizon like a fly.
They named it. But my poor old island’s still   
un-rediscovered, un-renamable.
None of the books has ever got it right.

Well, I had fifty-two
miserable, small volcanoes I could climb   
with a few slithery strides—
volcanoes dead as ash heaps.
I used to sit on the edge of the highest one   
and count the others standing up,
naked and leaden, with their heads blown off.   
I’d think that if they were the size   
I thought volcanoes should be, then I had   
become a giant;
and if I had become a giant,
I couldn’t bear to think what size   
the goats and turtles were,
or the gulls, or the overlapping rollers   
—a glittering hexagon of rollers   
closing and closing in, but never quite,   
glittering and glittering, though the sky   
was mostly overcast.

My island seemed to be
a sort of cloud-dump. All the hemisphere’s   
left-over clouds arrived and hung
above the craters—their parched throats   
were hot to touch.
Was that why it rained so much?
And why sometimes the whole place hissed?   
The turtles lumbered by, high-domed,   
hissing like teakettles.
(And I’d have given years, or taken a few,   
for any sort of kettle, of course.)
The folds of lava, running out to sea,
would hiss. I’d turn. And then they’d prove   
to be more turtles.
The beaches were all lava, variegated,   
black, red, and white, and gray;
the marbled colors made a fine display.   
And I had waterspouts. Oh,
half a dozen at a time, far out,
they’d come and go, advancing and retreating,   
their heads in cloud, their feet in moving patches   
of scuffed-up white.
Glass chimneys, flexible, attenuated,   
sacerdotal beings of glass ... I watched   
the water spiral up in them like smoke.   
Beautiful, yes, but not much company.

I often gave way to self-pity.
“Do I deserve this? I suppose I must.
I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Was there   
a moment when I actually chose this?
I don’t remember, but there could have been.”   
What’s wrong about self-pity, anyway?
With my legs dangling down familiarly   
over a crater’s edge, I told myself
“Pity should begin at home.” So the more   
pity I felt, the more I felt at home.

The sun set in the sea; the same odd sun   
rose from the sea,
and there was one of it and one of me.   
The island had one kind of everything:   
one tree snail, a bright violet-blue
with a thin shell, crept over everything,   
over the one variety of tree,
a sooty, scrub affair.
Snail shells lay under these in drifts   
and, at a distance,
you’d swear that they were beds of irises.   
There was one kind of berry, a dark red.   
I tried it, one by one, and hours apart.   
Sub-acid, and not bad, no ill effects;   
and so I made home-brew. I’d drink   
the awful, fizzy, stinging stuff
that went straight to my head
and play my home-made flute
(I think it had the weirdest scale on earth)   
and, dizzy, whoop and dance among the goats.   
Home-made, home-made! But aren’t we all?   
I felt a deep affection for
the smallest of my island industries.   
No, not exactly, since the smallest was   
a miserable philosophy.

Because I didn’t know enough.
Why didn’t I know enough of something?   
Greek drama or astronomy? The books   
I’d read were full of blanks;
the poems—well, I tried
reciting to my iris-beds,
“They flash upon that inward eye,
which is the bliss ...” The bliss of what?   
One of the first things that I did
when I got back was look it up.

The island smelled of goat and guano.   
The goats were white, so were the gulls,   
and both too tame, or else they thought   
I was a goat, too, or a gull.
Baa, baa, baa and shriek, shriek, shriek,
baa ... shriek ... baa ... I still can’t shake   
them from my ears; they’re hurting now.
The questioning shrieks, the equivocal replies   
over a ground of hissing rain
and hissing, ambulating turtles
got on my nerves.
When all the gulls flew up at once, they sounded
like a big tree in a strong wind, its leaves.   
I’d shut my eyes and think about a tree,   
an oak, say, with real shade, somewhere.   
I’d heard of cattle getting island-sick.   
I thought the goats were.
One billy-goat would stand on the volcano
I’d christened Mont d’Espoir or Mount Despair
(I’d time enough to play with names),   
and bleat and bleat, and sniff the air.   
I’d grab his beard and look at him.   
His pupils, horizontal, narrowed up
and expressed nothing, or a little malice.   
I got so tired of the very colors!   
One day I dyed a baby goat bright red   
with my red berries, just to see   
something a little different.
And then his mother wouldn’t recognize him.

Dreams were the worst. Of course I dreamed of food
and love, but they were pleasant rather
than otherwise. But then I’d dream of things   
like slitting a baby’s throat, mistaking it   
for a baby goat. I’d have
nightmares of other islands
stretching away from mine, infinities   
of islands, islands spawning islands,   
like frogs’ eggs turning into polliwogs   
of islands, knowing that I had to live   
on each and every one, eventually,   
for ages, registering their flora,   
their fauna, their geography.

Just when I thought I couldn’t stand it   
another minute longer, Friday came.   
(Accounts of that have everything all wrong.)   
Friday was nice.
Friday was nice, and we were friends.   
If only he had been a woman!
I wanted to propagate my kind,   
and so did he, I think, poor boy.
He’d pet the baby goats sometimes,
and race with them, or carry one around.   
—Pretty to watch; he had a pretty body.

And then one day they came and took us off.

Now I live here, another island,
that doesn’t seem like one, but who decides?
My blood was full of them; my brain   
bred islands. But that archipelago
has petered out. I’m old.
I’m bored, too, drinking my real tea,   
surrounded by uninteresting lumber.
The knife there on the shelf—
it reeked of meaning, like a crucifix.
It lived. How many years did I   
beg it, implore it, not to break?
I knew each nick and scratch by heart,
the bluish blade, the broken tip,
the lines of wood-grain on the handle ...
Now it won’t look at me at all.   
The living soul has dribbled away.   
My eyes rest on it and pass on.

The local museum’s asked me to
leave everything to them:
the flute, the knife, the shrivelled shoes,
my shedding goatskin trousers
(moths have got in the fur),
the parasol that took me such a time   
remembering the way the ribs should go.
It still will work but, folded up,
looks like a plucked and skinny fowl.
How can anyone want such things?
—And Friday, my dear Friday, died of measles
seventeen years ago come March.


Elizabeth Bishop, “Crusoe in England” from The Complete Poems, 1927-1979. Copyright © 1980 by Elizabeth Bishop. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux,

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Birder

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

By Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844–1889 Gerard Manley Hopkins
     
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.


A Lady Who Knows

Stairway to Heaven Sonnet
     by Denise Duhamel & Maureen Seaton
        
Florida's state bird is the crane, by which we mean
green, orange, and yellow construction cranes that hang
a mile or more above us on the beach and swing their pointy
arms all around like slow-mo highwire ballerinas.
They stand while they sleep and each weekday morning
call out their metal duets then begin their pointe work.
I ask my love: do you think that crane would crush
us in our bed like palmetto bugs if it fell north?
Of course it would, my amour says and that night
wakes up screaming, flapping very human arms.
Sometimes we feel watched over as we grab our
water wings and float like the dead on top of the sea.
Sometimes our necks ache from craning at the cranes
that sway to Led Zeppelin at dawn, all flute and wonder.

 

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Poetry

Poetry


Marianne Moore, 1887 - 1972

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
      all this fiddle.
   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
      discovers in
   it after all, a place for the genuine.
      Hands that can grasp, eyes
      that can dilate, hair that can rise
         if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
      they are
   useful. When they become so derivative as to become
      unintelligible,
   the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
      do not admire what
      we cannot understand: the bat
         holding on upside down or in quest of something to 

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
      wolf under
   a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
      that feels a flea, the base-
   ball fan, the statistician--
      nor is it valid
         to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must make
      a distinction
   however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
      result is not poetry,
   nor till the poets among us can be
     “literalists of
      the imagination”--above
         insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"
      shall we have
   it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
   the raw material of poetry in
      all its rawness and
      that which is on the other hand
         genuine, you are interested in poetry.

Monday, April 4, 2016

April 4 Poem For Me (and You)

Long-billed Curlew (Numenius longirostris)




Would it help to know that God
is no relation etymologically
to good?


But closer to pour, to cast,
to funnel?


Dark above,
paler below:


the wing linings visible
in flight.


Closer to the name
invoked, the call
loud and musical, ascending.


Eleanor Stanford

Harvard Review
Number 48

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Because Will

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.



Saturday, April 2, 2016

Happy National Poetry Month!!

Elm

By Sylvia Plath 1932–1963 Sylvia Plath
     
For Ruth Fainlight

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:   
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,   
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,   
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?   
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.   
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.   
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me   
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.   
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.   
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing   
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?   
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.   
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?——

Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults   
That kill, that kill, that kill.


Thursday, January 21, 2016

In Those Relationships

Image of the Day:  A bald eagle being attacked by some other large bird outside our office windows. 

One of my co-workers spotted the eagle today while we were having lunch.  This is the third bald eagle I've seen in like two months!  One was right in my small town!  Before this, it had been years.  I wonder what is happening to their environment to make them so visible? 

So I haven't been exactly current on this blog.  I've been distracted from the poetry world by other parts of my world.  But this happens and I'm okay with it--mainly because I know we need these other parts of our world to take over and to possibly deepen our experiences. At least this is what I'm telling myself. We can't always focus on just one part of our lives--the poetry will happen soon.  I know this because I'm going to be taking an on-line class in February.    I have purchased poetry books in anticipation of delving back into that world:  Kingdom Animalia by Aracelis Girmay and ABCs of Women's Work by Kathleen Kirk. But right now I'm just re-reading the Harry Potter series because that's all my mind can handle right now.  I miss writing, which is a good thing.  We'll see what happens to my writing when I return to it. 

But I do have a poem here, that you can read.  Disclaimer:  I don't have a therapist but I am fascinated by the intimacy that must occur in those relationships. I had at one point titled this: Love Poem to My Imaginary Therapist, but that didn't quite work. 

From Ann Truitt on Brain Pickings:
The terms of the experience and the terms of the work itself are totally different. But if the work is successful — I cannot ever know whether it is or not — the experience becomes the work and, through the work, is accessible to others with its original force.
For me, this process is mysterious. It’s like not knowing where you’re going but knowing how to get there. 


Mind in Flock, Mind Apart
by K. A. Hays
       

They scatter high, the grackles. What's to know
of mind in flock? Some baffling drive to share?
I keep apart my thought. They swoop and go

as if some harried god inhaled. A show
of beauty, then—the great lung thrills with air
that scatters high the grackles. This I know:

they perch like thorns, that blackened croaking row
along a bough. We too sing what we bear,
but keep apart most thoughts—they swoop and go

like hawks, drab hunters circling, circling slow
over small things: to dive, to feed. To tear
and scatter high. The grackles (those I know)

stay close in hunger: flit down, grub low,
blue clucks, green squeals—and each self gone where?
Not kept apart. Less thought, more swoop and go—

a particle, a wave. The peppered dusk. But no,
what weird squalling—is what's here in me out there?
They scatter high, the grackles, what I know.
They keep a part of thought. I swoop—they go.
 
 
 

The Indianapolis Review

I've got a poem in the brand spanking new journal The Indianapolis Review .  It's a gorgeous journal with fabulous artwork, a conver...