Poet’s corner: Of love and a house

Rorschach Test Shoulder blades of a house, one left, one right; both browned by afternoon suns. ~ ~ ~ Mouths of two bedroom windows, opened wide. ~ ~ ~ The outline of my grandparents, my grandma smelling like coffee and lavender soap, their shapes still pressed in their beds. ~ ~ ~ Something said and phrased by the throat of a wren, a morning filled with the language and shape of vowels. ~~~ The dead profiles of a Ford and Buick left to rust in the bramble, one turning left, the other turning right. ~ ~ ~ M … (read more)

Excerpted from September 1, 1939         By W.H. Auden All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State … (read more)

Silver Solstice By Cindy Hill   Pale sun slides low across the silver sky and softly spins a thread of silver light to hold the force of day against the night, the all-entombing darkness to defy. Like mycorrhizal filaments through earth or water pulsing u … (read more)

Recognize             By Scudder Parker He stands by the rock wall and roses, stares across the valley at Northfield hills. Sometimes, it seems, he just comes to cry.   Our driveway, house, lawn where he waits, are on land clawed and leveled from rough pa … (read more)

Even Now   Even now, the lion sculpture at Frog Hollow,  the one made of so many old metal washers,  shines as best it can in the subdued light.  The water rushing over the falls sounds  its deep chords, playing off the wind  in the maple and linden trees … (read more)

Unlocking But it is not always quiet here. Things go on while we sleep the sleep of soldiers. Ancient branches crack and splinter into dust. Large wings snap open in spring like carpets splayed out over the railing. Granite splits apart at the seams and g … (read more)

Winter’s Delicate Solitude   This is the closing-in time of year: The weary earth rests, leans back and retires; Pine-quilted hills guard the brink of the world, Horizons now strangely attainable. The sky yawns, heavy-lidded and colored With sleep, and lo … (read more)

Winter Solstice   The dry rustle of leaves is what I remember, and the lateness of the hour — moon yet to appear. Something ending, something about to begin. Raven makes a different sound than owl, makes a different sound than snow falling not quite silen … (read more)

A Resurrection Man   After too much time working in the graveyard of unfinished poems where midnight ground is littered with broken metaphors and cracked headstones, where disappointment’s weather has blurred the lettering of reluctant epitaphs,   I with … (read more)

In Whom We Live and Move and Have our Being   It’s October Snow geese fly far above the trees in sleek silence. Canada geese circle noisily above the stubby cornfield. White pines drop their needles through the clear air transforming the forest floor into … (read more)

Down to Earth   The heart of a farmer is made of muscle and clay that aches for return to earth. And when the sky releases a steady rain, massaging each row of sprouted beans, my husband leans out of the car window and opens his hand to hold that water fo … (read more)

                  Inside   Ducks of the early morning lake vee into nearby reeds, early summer rustling toward flight   while elsewhere morning scrim slowly rises, loosens peepholes along shorelines, pinpricks of light on familiar mountain stonecroppings … (read more)