Whimbrel Whimbrel
Kin to the limpkin, she whimpers when primping, wears rimless eyeglasses for skimming her primer on swimming. She splashes through grasses amassing her ration of shrimp, and stands, a fat ampersand, on the sandpaper strand making eyes at a snipe, fanning the passions of the sandpiper nations.
Jun 7, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Sidney Wade
Onderdunk Road Onderdunk Road
from the Iroquois Museum came the story of a sky woman who fell thru the clouds and was caught by geese who set her down on a turtle’s back. Thus, people came on Bear Road there were no bears on Schoolhouse Road only a swamp on the state highway freight trucks roared past us for half a mile and on Red Barn Road somebody had recently painted a barn red and there the mud-covered cows charged toward us and waited for a word at the hot-wired fence we told them we meant Helios no offense weeping willow trees were always close to houses while lichen-covered, crag-wrinkled trees had faces to be seen, recognized on them all these barns with roofs sagging like wet paper tear themselves down by decay unstitched nails pop from buckled walls under which the white ash and maple sprout when we came down from the hill where fog enshrouded us rushing water in culverts was loud but invisible
Jun 1, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Daniel Bouchard
Swarf Swarf
If you have seen the fine metallic filings flying onto the fellow who crimps copper into flashing and fashions pivot hinges from brass, you have seen it. This is not the late Bronze Age. There are no palace economies, only the economy of one man milling metal to earn the flimsy dollars that keep him fed. When you knock on his door he quiets the grindstone raises his polycarbonate visor and greets you swathed in a swarm of gold— not war gold or altar gold but the metalsmith’s hard-won residue: swarf.
May 18, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Erica Funkhouser
Kerf Kerf
What disappears when an eight-foot plank is sawn in half, yielding two less-than-four-foot boards, a solid term for what’s lost to the teeth of separation. Neither sawdust nor error, nor the labor of gremlins waiting to wreak havoc on perfectly accurate measurements. Kerf—you will know it by its absence, like divided attention. Small consolation: each board as it’s halved releases both sides of a single scent, limewood for linden, pine for pine.
May 18, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Erica Funkhouser
Hordes of trees with unpronounceable names poured down on our suburb Hordes of trees with unpronounceable names poured down on our suburb
As the seasons waned Collided with our own trees grown grassy with meditation Club-footed humilis draped in a coat borrowed from the wolf Quercus with its tympanums pierced by vindictive birds Oleaster black with the secretions of cemeteries We would wait for them with sticks, hatchets and bark-eating dogs Our widows pursued them howling The moon dumped its overload of stones and sparks on them They left without having parted the love-furrow of a single rose Without having touched the downy neck of a single honeysuckle Or showed their wounded knees to the healing beech tree They retreated to the river where they emptied their pockets full of beetles That they had intended for us We witnessed their rout through the town’s interstices From shafts of light kept for heat waves Hairy Disheveled And their sooty souls left traces on our laundry The mother’s heart went out to plebian trees To the elm that holds dreams back at hell’s gate To the golden-eyed arbutus Their photos on our walls replaced those of ancestors gone to graze on the mountains Of a brother who died for having written a book with the words of the pomegranate tree that splashed the doorstep with blood (Translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker)
May 18, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Vénus Khoury-Ghata
Ode Ode
Blue jay vocalizes a clash on the color wheel, tulip heads removed one by one with a golf wedge. It’s something in the frequency. Expectations are high. There’s a reason they call it the nervous system. Someone in bed at 11 AM impersonates an empty house. Dear god. The sharpener’s dragged his cart from the shed. His bell rings out of the twelfth century to a neighborhood traumatizing its food with dull knives. A hammer creeps to the edge of a reno and peers over. Inching up its pole, a tentative flag. What is the source? Oh spring, my heart is in my mouth.
May 4, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Karen Solie
Confession Confession
I read the chemistry so I think of my windows as thick syrup and I do see a whole world stuck to them so I believe it Somehow twenty pelicans just now escaped with their shadows but the oaks and palmettos are struggling wildly to get loose If they can’t do it with a thousand hands how could we with two Our predicament had been holding two things true at the same time It was worse actually We knew truth between them and did nothing
Apr 21, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Allan Peterson
Rattles Rattles
When I finally woke up, the nurse handed me my baby. “He’s pretty,” she said, plopping him. His eyes looked slanted. The sun shone in. I squinted. I tried to remember the last thing I remembered. A dance in the OR, people scrambling all around me. A nurse with horns. A doctor with a scalpel, another looking toothless. Their faces, all veiny. My husband, where was he, with a cherry. My baby cried, his voice squeaky. I hurt from where they took him. Shh, I said. Shh. I held him. I was cold. He got quiet, closed his eyes and I asked the nurse where was my husband. She wore scrubs with an array of colored rattles. Yellow glasses. Something smelled like apples. She said, Your baby’s probably hungry. I tried to move my arms, to give him, but a sharp pain shot through me. Ahh! I said. Please, I said to the nurse. Can you? She took him, shushing him, bouncing him out to the hallway.
Apr 6, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Kim Chinquee
Looking at Maps Looking at Maps
If they’d had writing in time, Cuba could have been Crete, watery source of the Minoans and thus the Greeks. What’s lost? A possible us growing like new foliage out of stony ground, emerging? Last voice, first, a whole world calling— awful, inaudible—into the unstoppable loud (roaring!) hurricane-force sea wind.
Mar 30, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Elizabeth Arnold
Cats Can Cats Can
You’re feeling silly, but someone said that cats can see ghosts. So you go to the door with a saucer of milk, and just then the ghost wakes up from a deep sleep and bleeds a little into the sink. Or not the sink, but a bed, or rather a head now held up by a bed. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Choosing your words carefully makes no difference to a cat or a ghost. Look at your backyard. Does the grass care what the frost heave thinks? Contour is all, even when hidden. The loose overburden covering a buried cavity is delicately balanced. When runoff- storage ponds seep into the folds of the brain, the additional weight can trigger a collapse called a sinkhole, where ghosts bleed into the cracks. Cats can see it.
Mar 23, 2011 / Books & the Arts / Benjamin Friedlander