July 2016

Last Sunday in July

          by Lynne Viti

Sun, then not-sun, clouds

then not-clouds,

warm, then not-warm.

This slender land can’t

make up its mind.

Cool breezes,

fungi of every color erupt–

red, colonies of chocolate brown,

or white, something you might

find in your salad.

Not much to do save

listen to Bill Evans ply the piano,

wrestle with the crossword,

turn off the phone.

Lynne Viti is a senior lecturer in the Writing Program at Wellesley College. Her poetry has appeared most recently in Paterson Review, Mountain Gazette, The LongLeaf Pine, Amuse-Bouche, Silver Birch Press, These Fragile Lilacs, Damfino Journal, In-Flight Literary Magazine, Blognostics, A New Ulster, The Journal of Applied Poetics,   The Lost Country, Irish Literary Review, and in a curated exhibit at Boston City Hall. She won an Honorable Mention in the 2015 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest, and an award in the 2015 Summer Poetry Contest of The Song Is... She blogs at https://stillinschool.wordpress.com.

June 2016

Custody of the Eyes

Gerard Manley Hopkins

by Jeffrey Harrison

To look at the world
with devotion,
giving all of himself
to what was given,
sometimes gave him
so much pleasure
he thought it must be
a sin, distracting him
from his devotion
to God. Therefore
the eyes had to be

taken into custody
like a pair of criminals,
kept in the flesh-and-
bone cell of the head,
their gaze cast down
in penitence,
the eyes themselves
watched over
to prevent them from
looking at anything
more than was needed
to get through the day.
For weeks or months
at a time, and once
for half a year,
he denied himself
the beauty he knew
more acutely than others,
as if reducing each thing—
flower, stone, bird—
to a single word,
stripping it of the
singularity
he loved to describe
in rushing phrases
that spilled down
his journal’s pages.
But when the penance
ended, his sight
flew out
into the open sky
and over the fields,
innocently coming
to rest on each self-
expressing element
of creation
with such delight
and gratitude
he couldn’t keep
the words from
pouring out of him. 

from Into Daylight, by Jeffrey Harrison, Tupelo Press, 2014

Jeffrey Harrison is the author of five books of poetry, including Incomplete Knowledge, runner-up for the Poets’ Prize in 2008, and Into Daylight, published by Tupelo Press in 2014 as the winner of the Dorset Prize and selected by the Massachusetts Center for the Book as a Must-Read Book for 2015. A recipient of Guggenheim and NEA Fellowships, his poems have appeared widely in magazines and anthologies.

May 2016

How to Draw a Tree

by Pamela Starr

First, abandon your desk and go outside.

Stand under the spreading branches,

gazing through curling leaves,

then down at swaths of eyelet

like Swiss cheese, holes

of light surrounded by shadow.

As the breeze fans your bare arms,

turn your gaze upon the massive trunk

stretching into the sky, touch

the jagged bark and blotches of lichen

that stick to one side, true north. Rest

your head on bare brown roots

and imagine how they grip

the ground beneath. Smell

the loam that covers them,

breathe in its freshness before

you go back inside, charcoal in hand,

to trace it on the naked page.

Sketch the trunk quickly, then feathery

branches and a cloud of leaves,

stippling a few to show their texture.  

No brush stroke will capture

what rustles the leaves, or the squawk

of birds as they shout to one another

from branch to branch, or the peace

you feel lying flat on the ground

and looking up on a warm spring day,

when everything seems possible, the day

stretching endlessly in front of you,

dusk a dream far, far away.

Pamela Starr lives in Hudson, Massachusetts, and has worked as a textbook editor, technical writer, and project manager. Previous publications include an essay in Negative Capability as well as poems in Ballard Street Poetry Journal, GlassFire Magazine, Tilt-a-Whirl, and Currents Anthology VII.

April 2016

Emergence

by Barbara Lydecker Crane

    From specks of eggs inert a year

and forest floors gray-brown and seer,

            beetle legs creep.

    Past pebbles ground by sea to sand

and seaweed fronds by current fanned,

            silver scales leap.

    In winds that swell and buffet seas,

through April lace of branching trees,

            white wings sweep.

    The seasons, sun and sea are skeins

that weave new life from roots and veins

            and unseen sources deep.  

Zero Gravitas and ALPHABETRICKS are Barbara Lydecker Crane’s chapbooks, available on Amazon. She has published over 100 poems–humorous or serious (or sometimes both)– in poetry journals and anthologies, including recent or forthcoming work in Atlanta Review, First Things, Light and Parody. 

March 2016

Flores Woman

          by Tracy K. Smith

A species of tiny human has been discovered, which lived on the remote Indonesian island of Flores just 18,000 years ago. . . . Researchers have so far unearthed remains from eight individuals who were just one metre tall, with grapefruit-sized skulls. These astonishing little people . . . made tools, hunted tiny elephants and lived at the same time as modern humans who were colonizing the area.

—Nature, October 2004

Light: lifted, I stretch my brief body.
Color: blaze of day behind blank eyes.

Sound: birds stab greedy beaks
Into trunk and seed, spill husk

Onto the heap where my dreaming
And my loving live.

Every day I wake to this.

Tracks follow the heavy beasts
Back to where they huddle, herd.

Hunt: a dance against hunger.
Music: feast and fear.

This island becomes us.

Trees cap our sky. It rustles with delight
In a voice green as lust. Reptiles

Drag night from their tails,
Live by the dark. A rage of waves

Protects the horizon, which we would devour.
One day I want to dive in and drift,

Legs and arms wracked with danger.
Like a dark star. I want to last.

from Duende (Graywolf Press, 2007)

Tracy K. Smith is the 2016 winner of the Robert Creeley Award. The public is invited to see Ms. Smith receive her award and read from her work at the Acton-Boxborough Regional High School auditorium on March 29 at 7:30 p.m. Old Frog Pond Farm & Studio is a sponsor of this free community event. We hope to see you there!

 Ms. Smith is the author of Life on Mars (Graywolf Press), which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2011; the memoir Ordinary Light (Knopf, 2015); and two other award-winning books of poetry, Duende and The Body's Question (Graywolf, 2002). She teaches at Princeton University.

February 2016

The Future of Apples

by Eve Linn

Remove spurs that do not fruit,

dry wood, water sprouts, or green

wood that crosses another branch.

One rubs another, bruises bark,

causes cankers, then rots.

In gloved hand, curved

shears, wait, oiled and ready.

Dive close. Cut slant and quick.

Sever the twig, still

sap-filled, clear, juice-sweet.

A clean cut with a sharp blade

is always best. Expose the wound

to sun. To dry, to harden, to callus.

The burn pile is full of twigs

cut for good reason.

Eve F.W. Linn received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing with a Poetry Concentration from Lesley University, Low-Residency Program and her B.A. cum laude in Studio Art from Smith College. She lives and writes west of Boston with her family. She enjoys fiber arts, photography, strong coffee, and dark chocolate, and dislikes small salty fish.

January 2016

Wassail Bowl

 a renga* in celebration of apples composed by Susan Edwards Richmond

the first icy snow

fell

like a flock of angry sparrows

now, branches steeled

against a steely sky

the orchard is asleep

all the sweetness of the berries

is driven deep in the ground

the farmers scan nursery lists

plotting spring

the list of apples

her father grew in their orchard

high on the shoulder of Mount Blue

the cool taste of promise

on her tongue-

Green Crisp

Snowsweet

Maiden Blush

maybe Rhode Island Greening-

starting tart but aging sweet,

listen carefully

to what the trees tell us, saying

pay attention to the changes

the knowing

when to flower, when to fruit

toast with spiced cider

wassailing the trees,

the fairies, the nature sprites,

the scent of apples to come

animates the senses.

*A renga is a Japanese form of “linked poem," composed of alternating three- and two-line stanzas by poets working in pairs or small groups. This poem links lines excerpted from complete works from the following poets:  Polly Brown, Lila Linda Terry, Terry House, William Lenderking, Deborah Melone, Franny Osman, Cheryl Perreault, and Susan Edwards Richmond.

December 2015

To love a salt marsh in winter

by Dawn Paul

To love a salt marsh in winter

is to love the color brown

crumbling storm-ravaged creek banks

slick frozen mudflats

weathered rushes and reeds.

To love a salt marsh in winter

is to love the sound

of tide-jumbled ice chunks

in flooded creeks

surf thrashing the beach

beyond the huddled dunes.

To love a salt marsh in winter,

face the wind

watch the horizon long and low

as one lone harrier drops down

from the empty sky.

Dawn Paul teaches writing and interdisciplinary studies at Montserrat College of Art and has published two novels, The Country of Loneliness and Still River. Her poetry has been published most recently in the Naugatuck River Review and the Paterson Literary Review. She is also a frequent performer on the Improbable Places Poetry Tour and works with the Mass Poetry Festival.

November 2015

Asking the Great Meadows a Question

            by Louise Berliner  

Evening primrose went crisp

and caught the fuzz

off the bulrushes; yes,

they went pale and skeletal

while the asters merely fizzed,

and the explosion of the bulrush    

soldier hats—shocking.

Even milkweed joined the rampage,

launching parachutes

while the waters rose

on either side of the dyke,

the geese and ducks

once again in charge.

As I lay in bed,

I thought I walked among the herons,

escorted down avenues

of blooming goldenrod,

by buttonbush, horse lettuce,

blue vervain, meadowsweet;

saw the burr marigolds

shining in the shallow flats,

the lotus still late summer green

with her fabulous floating platters

clouds for the fish below.

Now those elephant ears

listen under water,

and their seedpods hang

their little Munchkin hat heads

like old-fashioned telephone receivers.

Hello? Hello?

Is anybody there?

A solo honk cuts the air,

bare stalks rustle in response.  

I may not speak Goose,

but I recognize November.

What surgery did the seasons perform,

while I lay recovering in my bed,

the green going all kinds of color,

before surrendering to brown?

Louise Berliner plays with words, herbs, fiber, and vine. She has a studio at the Umbrella in Concord, MA. Her poems, articles, and short fiction have appeared in VQR, The Mom Egg, Porter Gulch Review, Ibbetson Review, Sacred Fire magazine, and plein air chapbook collections from Old Frog Pond and Fruitlands. She is the author of Texas Guinan, Queen of the Night Clubs, and when she isn’t writing or weaving can be found walking at Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge.

October 2015

Orpheus

by Leonore Wilson

He walks down the hill alone

away from me, with his bike

slung over his right shoulder

like a silver lyre, this man

who will pedal the eighteen miles

to the factory where he will mix

barley and hops and yeast

and water and watch as the alchemy

of beer cooks and the steam

rises out over the sunflower fields

and back pastures of the air force

town wishing he was on those wheels

again coming back through

the beneficence of buckeyes,

their flowery scent catching in his hair,

his sweat alive with the memory

of morning when we were

awakened by the same pure songbird

in the far canyon, the one hidden

we have yet to name, but

there steady as sunlight

and mist as we sidle up face to face

and our sleepy eyes open

as if we were the only dependable gods

on earth lending

our entire breath to the day.

from Western Solstice, published by Hiraeth Press

Leonore Wilson is the author of Western Solstice and Tremendum, Augustum, and has published in Quarterly West, Madison Review, Third Coast, Poets Against the War, and other journals. She has taught at universities and colleges throughout the San Francisco Bay Area and won fellowships to the University of Utah and Villa Montalvo Center for the Arts. She lives on her family cattle ranch in Napa, California.

September 2015

Raspberry Picking at Old Frog Pond

     by Heather Corbally Bryant

Already the smell of Concord grapes punctuates

The night air—the mornings are cooler now, and chill—

Grass still green again now after summer’s burn—

Darkness comes more quickly, without hesitation.

We walk along a ridge and through an abandoned quarry

Past layers of ferns and darkened mosses.

The water reflects black from marble gathered

From underneath—beneath now stilled currents

Where the river used to flow. Afterwards, we follow

Signs to yet another pond where rows of raspberries

Grow side to side, reddening in the late August sun,

Almost full, dodging in between the buzzing bees

Busy pollinating for the next season while we pluck

Small jewels, plunking them in our baskets.

I am loath to relinquish this time, to return

To the routine of school, to realize that, as I watch,

My children are slipping through my fingers.

Heather Corbally Bryant teaches in the Writing Progam at Wellesley College. She is the author of a non-fiction study, “How Will the Heart Endure: Elizabeth Bowen and the Landscape of War,” a novel, “Through Your Hands,” and several poetry collections. Her poetry chapbook, “Compass Rose,” is forthcoming from the Finishing Line Press in February 2016.

August 2015

The Mallow Leans toward the Sun

          by Helen Marie Casey

Songs of cicadas overwhelm silence until even the whispers

of trees grow inaudible. Beneath ancient canopies,

mottled oaks shake tired leaves, butterflies sail into and out of

darkest shadows. I am the one who slakes the thirst

of daisies, lilies, catmint. The chipmunk, the squirrel,

and the crow gossip. Impatiens would like to dominate. Weeds,

in wild abandon, shrug. Asters rise, too common for notice.

Sundrops, yellow luster out of season now, straggle and grow limp.

The Japanese maple, silent as a queen, keeps its purple secrets.

“The Mallow Leans toward the Sun” is excerpted with permission from Casey’s longer work titled “Maybe an Iris.”

Helen Marie Casey has lived in Sudbury, Massachusetts, for 35 years and has learned to love New England's seasons and heritage with an unanticipated passion. Her chapbooks include Fragrance Upon His Lips, a series of poems about Joan of Arc, and Inconsiderate Madness, a series of poems about Mary Dyer. She has also written a biography about one of Sudbury's artists, My Dear Girl: The Art of Florence Hosmer.