Gary Margolis
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Separation
Our Cornwall poet writes in celebration of our earthly astronauts.
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Listen: Father and son create new sounds
Cornwall family brings a new kind of sound that’s definitely worth a listen.
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Letter/poem to the editor: Thinking of You and What the World Needs to Do
Stand on a bridge with a sign. If you can’t do that, honk.
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Poetry: Note to the President
Let me note this morning I came/ across a coin, I thought, crossing/ Tully Road. Once a path for local/ soldiers. Farmers mostly. And nut/ gatherers. Its face…
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Poetry: In changing times, Fenway Park’s mystique remains
Never thought you’d sing/ her name./ A girl you never knew. Swaying/ with a stadium of strangers…
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Poetry: Cory’s Song
Not that you or I couldn’t have stood/ on our feet. For twenty-four hours./ Speaking impassionately./ Sat in a chair. Lain in a bed./ Reading words cast on…
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Letter to the editor: Getting up early: lacrosse athletes & farmworkers
It’s not my place to suggest/ to your coach, she bus you/ to one of our Addison County/ farms. If you have to be in/ the Field House…
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Poetry: January 20th
Oh my director of the national/ portrait gallery/ of owls./ Oh what I wouldn’t give for you/ to leave your doors/ open. For me not to have to/…
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Poetry: Did you know Frost, I asked you
Wasn’t he the guy who wrote poetry/ up in Ripton, you said,/ when I asked you, if you knew/ Frost. If you ever bumped into him./ On one…
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Poetry: For Joe Castiglione, retiring
It’s not the same as calling it/a night./Saying goodbye. Even/here, in Fenway, there isn’t a wall/between us.
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Poetry: Remembering our dentist, Harvey Green
Known for humming when he drilled./Singing, his kind of Novocaine.
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Letter to the editor: A poetic take on recent racist incident at Bread Loaf
My Fellow Bread Loafers Unlikely you’ve read or heard yet. There are sheets, inscribed. Hanging from the Inn’s deck. Nailed to an Annex post. One, across the…
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Letter to the editor: Police are true public servants
Standing at Greg’s noontime, deli counter, next to one of our Middlebury police officers, I said, Hi, He extended his hand, his name, We greeted each other.
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Poetry: My bugle, my flag
The state suggests I bring in my bird/ feeders./ If I don’t want to find myself/ staring into two dark eyes./ If I have enough courage./ To step…
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A Cornwall poem
“I can’t say I don’t look forward to this once-/a-year. When I’ll bump into you, elbow one/of my neighbors. By the history table.”
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Poetry: At the vigil
No one could say who they were./ The men at the perimeter./ Why they appeared in uniforms./ Seemed to be wearing badges/ stitched into their shirts./ At this…