… Here with Dad for a week in the South Mountain. For two days it snowed and drizzled. Akram and I slept, slowed down from New York. Thursday we walked up Fire Tower Road—we still call it that although no … Continue reading
Tag Archives: sonnet
Sonnet 111: Almost December, Thanksgiving over
111 111 Almost December, Thanksgiving over outside is frozen once again. The warm TV is on and logs burn in the stove as I’m eating Aunt Fern’s dried tomatoes desiccated skins like mummies from the pyramids. Yum Yum Yum all … Continue reading
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… I wake the snakes on the way to the lake Coiling in leaves, slithering at my feet Half-seen in the low branches, thick brown waists Headless, tailless stone still in wait for me To trip them into slithering again. … Continue reading
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… There was a transitory spider’s web clinging to a metaphoric branch of birch that I undid stupidly touching it as I was going down the mountain side, the troubled spider in the middle clinging to a strand of its … Continue reading
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… Out of the drizzle and the fog they come boys dressed up like soldiers though they’re more like the hands that wind around a clock. Out of the Scotch mist’s chilly smoke and the cry of gulls they stop … Continue reading
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… … To be understood words are objective yet we understand them subjectively. When Willa Cather writes, “The long main street began at the church, the town seemed to flow from it like a stream from a spring,” the prose … Continue reading
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… The poet slides on her bottom stubborn As a turtle over slippery stones Sitting inching picking up the large ones That hinder her path dropping them to form An island in the current that’s rushing At us. I’m on … Continue reading
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… She completely sparkles, the girl talking to her father in a conversation that must be a little funny because she starts to laugh as well as talk, talking of her final destination perhaps leaving this very morning on a … Continue reading
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… At any moment it’s going to rain making the world for miles around all wet. As the sky’s growing darker the leaves get anxious—Or is it me? No I remain calm on this comfortable rock and see it’s the … Continue reading
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… I am singular and we are plural. I see us walking on the busy street and waiting for the bus. Each day I meet him, Walt Whitman, whose kind face I see all over the place. Or I am … Continue reading
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… I see how strong a fragile thing can be. Look! A butterfly comes fluttering over its own reflection hovering out in the middle of a pond so deep and close you’d think no insect strength could last the distance … Continue reading
Sandpiper by Elizabeth Bishop
… … Sandpiper The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. … Continue reading