(Ecco Press, $6.95) This poetry, intelligent and delicately worded, full of hard appraisals, has as its objects and experiences the domestic and traditional: gray '43 pennies, landscapes and eyesight, local wisdom, family history and neighborhood, marriage and children, friends and poetry itself. Her subject is her own vision, intelligent and emotional, in which an exciting…
A round in three parts I When I was a child I had a governess whom I despised. We slept in the same room. She stole my dreams. I, in turn, stole coins from her leather purse. I threw them out the window. Since we lived in Canada and it was wintertime, there was snow…
Listen, those of you with bones, To the ceremonies of attention. My first son, age six, hit his brother, age three, With a baseball bat. When he had gone to bed I asked him, severely, to remember When he got hit with a baseball bat Two years ago. He started to cry And when I…
James Wright. To a Blossoming Pear Tree. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1977. 62 pp. $7.95. Edward Kamau Brathwaite. Mother Poem. Oxford University Press, 1977. 117 pp. $6.50. Barry Goldensohn. Uncarving the Block. Vermont Crossroads Press, 1977. 62 pp. No price listed. Jane Shore. Eye Level. University of Massachusetts Press, 1977. 86 pp. No price listed….
All messages presented a plain solution. One morning in the east valley, the sun was eclipsed and as the sentry steadied the cooking pot, there was a brief and splendid shower of red moths. This wasn’t a diversion, but a signal to arise. We were well advised and got going. For the navigators, the fish…
There could be werewolves! At this latitude at least the rain can suffer in the night such a change, and lock the world inside itself, make it not the world but a likeness displayed behind glass as in a wax museum. Cut off in mid-sentence, is it not the custom to stare dumbly at the…
After Thanksgiving what is there but old newspaper and wet leaves pressed on the drive. We step out on to the road glistening like blue coal and can walk for miles. The doctor next door stands in his yard, hands to hips, surveying spanish moss the limbs wrenched out of the sky. A dog wags…
Beyond the window there’s only the lawn and a fence forming a square around the house. I strip the meat off the fish and throw the bones into the soup. Rising from the pot, the oils collect in a tight skin across the lid. This is the way my patience leaves and then comes back…
My voice disembodies. It will not stay where I am. Let it go, make friends with the distance, and where there was silence, let there be silence again, but different, more peculiar. For nothing must return exactly. Should my voice come back with the general wind saying “Distance didn’t want me”, I won’t claim it….
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