Poems by Raphael, Bertolino, Tremblay, Hotchkiss, & Pesznecker
Five Poems by Dan Raphael
Autumn Jade
i’m where rocks trick the sea into jumping to evaporation, a
place where not all who enter return.
the road attempts safe expedience but always surrenders to
the seas wild cousins, to lord gravity,
cause we yearn for the horizon, yearn to feel the moon pushing
us outside of our skin
as the shadow of winter grows, the shaman in my bones keens
caution and memory,
a winter ocean is immune to, balancing the sun’s heat or absence
with a constant current of arctic based chill, a life of immoderation—
constant night or constant day–or like Chicago with intolerable
winters and summers
where the fortnights of spring and fall are unbuttoning revels
cinched back
when thermal extremes burst through the neighborhood
echoing like compressed storms in the hallway that starts
in my throat and ends beneath me
i could use a bulbous headed kelp strand as a voodoo doll
for myself,
waiting for the dot-sized nibblers who may already be inside me,
sensing my beached stasis to awaken and feast, to dig their way
to the Valhalla of open air,
protected from the siren influence of rain, rain that would carry us
to a salty airless nightmare
a hundred miles inland my room gets colder when i close the curtain
to contain the heat
fueled by electricity made from captured rivers and eons-old sunlight
refined with the trees it fueled :
the ½ mile away freeway rumbles as if it’s the ocean, each car
a wave heading one way
passing its depleted self returning the other,
having visited or delivered, having spent and eaten. .
nothing swims beneath the asphalt surface, the tide of traffic
pulled by the incandescent moon of trade,
as if each wave is going to shore to work a 6 hour shift.
still gravity tugs, rain insists,
and the 24 hour mantra of 4 wheeled wave after wave will break
through this false bottom
to liberate soil kept decades in isolation, like rip van winkle
quickly evolving through microchips and self-hypnosis
inexpensive technology and sales techniques
the moon surrenders so the tide keeps contracting, exposing the bones
of previous technologies, unleashing the weather from its
gravitational bondage,
putting up the sign “commercial property–will develop to suit.”
as another 3 thousand sq ft vacation home gets between me
and the ocean,
takes another nibble out of the horizon
i feel like a cormorant when the slough between waves sinks me
into a valley of mountainous water
and in a microsecond of lost faith im not sure i will rise back to level
before the waves surround me
==
Poems by Marx, Petersen, and Sheffield
Work by Doug Marx, Paulann
Petersen, and Derek Sheffield
Four Poems by Doug Marx
Bracket Fungi
Step by gnomic step
I find them
barnacled to bark,
pale wattles, tumors
affirming a rumor
of organic unity–
witness blaze or scar
the mouth they kiss
where death lives,
all family
and no branch, each
filament a thought
splicing a web,
how like tired hearts
stumps crumble.
Don’t breathe. They eat the past,
immortal, anemic,
their spores are everywhere.
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Poems by Frumkin and Prose Poems by Goodrich
Poems by Gene Frumkin
The Perfection of Summer Thundershowers
Every afternoon around 4 o’clock the leaves discover a wind
behind the wind a thunderhead emerges from its hiding-place
The rain pellets the heat’s thick plate
Afterward, an hour at most
a few puddles have grown
blue green gold and red
in a few rutty beds
in alleys on the streets
in craters of grass
The heat surrounds the puddles
they form concentric cycles
You as a man within your shelter
watched the preparation for the rain then the rain itself
For a brief time
while it rained
you were happy
The world you live in had changed for the better
You, a critical man
had been the rain
as you had been the heat
The rain was perfect and you had lived perfectly
since nothing could have been preferred
to the rain
As a critical man
at the height of the downpour
(though still a nameless well-concealed lodger)
a flaw
had already found a warm spot in your heart
Not that the rain would stop
but that it was perfect
An Anthology of Earth Poems
Welcome to this ongoing anthology of contemporary “earth poems.” This has spun off of my own writing blog because it has a life of its own. A number of North American poets have contributed their work, and hopefully we can keep the collection growing and poems available.By the way, at the end of each poem on this home page, click on “more…” to see more poems.
James Grabill
Portland, Oregon
December 10, 2007
Kalamaras, Smith, Bly, Orr, Sheffield, and Raphael
Online Prose Poem – Robert Bly
The Dead Seal
1
Walking north along the point, I find a dead seal. From a few feet away, he looks like a brown log. The body is on its back, dead only a few hours. I stand and look at him. There’s a quiver in the dead flesh: My God, he’s still alive. And a shock goes through me, as if a wall of my room had fallen away.
His head is arched back, the small eyes closed; the whiskers sometimes rise and fall. He is dying. This is oil. Here on its back is the oil that heats our houses so efficiently. Wind blows fine sand back toward the ocean. The flipper near me lies folded over the stomach, looking like an unfinished arm, lightly glazed with sand at its edges. The other flipper lies half underneath. And the seal’s skin looks like an old over coat, scratched here and there — by sharp mussel shells maybe.
I reach out and touch him. Suddenly, he rears up, turns over. He gives three cries: Awaark! Awaark! Awaark! — like the cries from Christmas toys. He lunges toward me, I am terrified and leap back, though I know there can be no teeth in that jaw. He starts flopping toward the sea. But he falls over, on his face. He does not want to go back to the sea. He looks up at the sky, and he looks like and old lady who has lost her hair. He puts his chin back down on the sand, rearranges his flippers, and waits for me to go. I go.
Witherup, McNulty, Zimmerman, and LaMorticella
Poems by William Witherup
October in Appalachia
The last katydid knocks its tambourine,
dancing me here into what dark dream?
A bloody cloth is wiped across the trees
and the hills are full of howling strays.
Coal trucks hauling tons of darkness run
from Quicksand and Hazard and Kingdom Come,
dragging huge roots on underground chains,
leaking inky water thick as caulking.
This rocky shoulder leans toward winter sun.
The delicate mosses pray, gripping stone,
and broken dulimers break into flame.
The stars press our bones into what black seam?
–Hindman, Kentucky, 1973
McLagan, Sheffield, Howell, Bly, and Faulkner
Poems by Elizabeth McLagan
A Feather Falls from the Wing
of Light
Today, someone has left like a letter
addressed to a white forest which goes on
trailing its blue sleepless shadows. Snow
lips, snow eyes, snow pillows. Like ripples
on an overcast ocean, belts of fog
above a blue core. What is it to lie down
in sleep and lie down again into the sleep
of death? Is there a dream to usher
the spirit across – a white hand stretched out?
Once, I lay down in snow, flakes striking
the tent like sparks or hard rain, except
it was lightest powder falling all night
into the bowl of the lake. Was your death
such a night, warm and unmeasured?
A snowshoe hare passed by, ghost moons
drifted into the lungs of trees. Like needles
falling, like scratches on a glass plate. The light
went ashy. The ink glittered before it dried.
(from The Bitter Oleander Volume 12 Number 2,
Frances Locke Memorial Poetry Award Winner 2006)
Tremblay, McCord, Cooper, Averill, and Petersen
Poems by Bill Tremblay
Iron Mountain
At timberline
beside a hanging lake
tinted the teal isotope of iron
as I look at Long’s Peak
butterflies flutter Bach trills
among tundra flowers.
Two elk bound past.
Then as I cross scree fields
granite talus bows out, tilting
my balance so askew I gag,
brain spun with light oxygen
and spider belly-down hand
and foot, spraying debris
into air below, setting off
a childhood memory—
once in the black punishment
corner of my bedroom
when I was nine I saw a Cro Magnon
sitting cross-legged at a cave mouth
in the Pyrennes, gazing down
at a river valley. No longings,
no regrets clouded the membrane
between the sea of grass
and the green sparkle of eyes.
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Roth, Bradley, Siverly, Oliver, and Yake
Two Pieces by Paul Roth
Nothing at All
(from Cadenzas by Needlelight)
I am
the wind’s
shadow
Hollowed
by emptiness
my remains
scattered by
so many burials
rise and fall
among rock and sky
I am
the wind’s
shadow
Arms around me
I unwrap
are filled with all
that’s invisible
I am
the wind’s
shadow
Caught
by jagged reflections
of broken
window glass
I am
the wind’s
shadow
Left behind
by the night to be
its dark lips
around the last words
spoken
by dying stars
I am
the wind’s
shadow
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Roethke and Wright
Poems — Theodore Roethke
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