November 2018
Untitled
by Eamon Grennan
Soon enough, of course, the eyes adjust to this huge absence in which
Trees begin wintering, their coloured draperies given over, leaving
Naked shapes, ramifications, a reminder of what’s at the heart: a going
Away, the brilliant vertiginous vocabulary of leaves, of being-in-leaf,
Stripped down to sheer unmitigated syntax, this sense that what begins
In anchorage and rooted thickness will taper till the endmost twigs are only
Hair-wavers wincing in air, tiny cleavers of light, solid shadow-nothings
Of live wood reaching out the way wiry white tendrils of roots go groping
Down in the dark. Now
emptiness is all, and you may read what this late
Radiance has left in its wake: signs—stark silent—saying what’s what.
Reprinted with permission from The Quick of It, Graywolf Press, 2005.
Eamon Grennan taught for many years in the English Department of Vassar College. His poems are published in America by Graywolf Press, and in Ireland by Gallery Press. His most recent volume is There Now (2015). For the past ten years he has also written and directed short plays for voices on Irish subjects for Curlew Theatre Company in Connemara. He lives in Poughkeepsie and the West of Ireland.
October 2018
Watching Light in the Field
by Patricia Fargnoli
It may be part water, part animal—
the light—the long flowing whole
of it, river-like, almost feline,
shedding night, moving silent
and inscrutable into the early morning,
drifting into the low fields,
gathering fullness, attaching itself
to thistle and sweetgrass,
the towering border trees,
inheriting their green wealth—
blooming as if this
were the only rightful occupation,
rising beyond itself, stretching out
to inhabit the whole landscape.
I think of illuminations, erasures,
how light informs us, is enough
to guide us. How too much
can cause blindness. I think of memory—
what is lost to us, what we desire.
By noon, nothing is exact,
everything diffused in the glare.
What cannot be seen intensifies:
rivulet of sweat across the cheekbone,
earthworm odor of soil and growing.
The field sways with confusion
of bird calls, mewlings,
soft indecipherable mumblings.
But in the late afternoon, each stalk
and blade stands out so sharp and clear
I begin to know my place among them.
By sunset as it leaves—
gold-dusting the meadow-rue and hoary alyssum,
hauling its bronze cloak across the fences,
vaulting the triple-circumference
of hills—I am no longer lonely.
"Watching Light in the Field" from Hallowed: New & Selected Poems, published by Tupelo Press, copyright 2017 Patricia Fargnoli. Used with permission.
Patricia Fargnoli, former New Hampshire Poet Laureate (2006-2009), is the author of five published books of poems which have won numerous awards, including the May Swenson Poetry Prize and the Jane Kenyon Award. She is a retired social worker and lives in Walpole, New Hampshire.
September 2018
Trail of Song
by Dawn Paul
A veery unravels his glissade of song
from the top of a tall oak along this trail
and I am reminded of the deep forest
at Saguenay in Quebec,
filled at dusk with veery song
every night we tented there.
As the light faded, one bird would
call a few tentative notes,
then others would join in
like an orchestra tuning up in the trees.
Soon melodies poured through the air,
thrush songs like crystal
chandeliers in the wind.
One bird now, yet I hear them all,
decades ago, hundreds of miles north
on the St. Lawrence River.
I was caught in this moment while walking the trail that runs past the bell.
Dawn Paul is the author of two novels, The Country of Loneliness and Still River. Her short fiction and poetry have been published in anthologies, journals, and magazines. She is also a frequent performer on the Improbable Places Poetry Tour and has received writing residencies at the Vermont Studio Center, Ragdale, the Spring Creek Project, and Friday Harbor Marine Laboratories. She teaches writing and interdisciplinary arts at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts.
Included with Dawn’s poem is the note she wrote for Old Frog Pond Farm’s 2018 Plein Air Poetry Walk and chapbook, Paths, Tracks, Trails.
Please mark your calendars for this year’s Plein Air Poetry Walk on Sunday, September 16 at 2 p.m. at the farm. Twenty-seven regional poets, including Dawn and several other poets who have been featured in this blog, will read new site-specific work on the theme of Paths, Tracks, and Trails. The Poetry Walk is free and open to the public. Chapbooks of the poems will also be available for purchase at the event. Hope to see you there!
August 2018
The Last Mile
by Martha Carlson Bradley
Not just south, but down
the boulder traveled, not just with
but through the melting glacier,
pollen, sand, the grist of smaller rocks
also adrift and sinking—
to land where, eons later,
ferns have learned to cluster
every spring, persistent—
and wilt back down come fall.
Barbed wire, rusted, skirts
the hulk of stone; the road
diverts around it,
like the tracks of deer—
while the boulder, half buried yet,
is flying—its shadow veering
at the speed of Earth.
Martha Carlson-Bradley has published several collections of poetry, including Begin with Trouble, which was a 2017 title in the Hobblebush Press Granite State Poetry Series; Sea Called Fruitfulness; and Season We Can't Resist. She also published three chapbooks with Adastra Press. Her poems have appeared in the LA Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Valparaiso Review, Zone 3, and other magazines. Her awards include the Baron Fellowship from the American Antiquarian Society, an Artist Fellowship from the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts, a St. Botolph grant-in-aid, and the Gretchen Warren Award. She earned a PhD in English from the UNC–Chapel Hill and an MFA from Warren Wilson College. A grant writer at Strawbery Banke Museum, she is currently writing a novel.
July 2018
The Keepers
by Kirk Westphal
Reverent hands select boards
that will hold the books,
Poplar, neither hard nor soft –
the durability of words
and malleability of intentions
embossed with clear grain of a Vermont river,
shadowed with alluring verdant hues
exposed to light
after years of quiet preparation
in the lexicology of trees.
These boards might have become paper
but do not choose their resurrection
nor measure one against another.
Ink on paper smells as new and old
as a fresh saw cut –
no knots in finely crafted lines.
Kirk Westphal is a water resource consultant, amateur carpenter, coach, author, and songwriter. The poem, "The Keepers," is excerpted from his first published collection of poetry, Bodies of Wood and Water (Kelsay Books/Aldrich Press, 2018). He is also the author of No Ordinary Game (DownEast Books, 2015), a collection of stories about great moments in sports that happen to everyday people. He lives in Stow, MA and is currently putting the finishing touches on a timber frame cabin in the Berkshire foothills, which is sure to become his favorite place to write in the years ahead.
Kirk will be reading from Bodies of Wood and Water at the Silver Unicorn Bookstore’s first poetry night on Wednesday, July 18 at 6 p.m., 12 Spruce Street, Acton, MA. Joining Kirk will be Helen Marie Casey, Christopher Clark, and Susan Edwards Richmond. Please come, hear some great poetry, and check out this beautiful new bookstore in West Acton.
June 2018
Earthdaughters
by Jeanne LeBaron Sawyer
‟marsh marigolds”
she notes
as we round the corner by the brook
and in my head I hear a timeless chorus
my mother’s voice and mine joining hers
‟skunk cabbage!”
as we compile
the catalog of spring
Jeanne LeBaron Sawyer, librarian and dedicated amateur naturalist, wrote this poem in about 1985. Like almost all her poems it had never been published until the past decade, when Jeanne worked with her daughter, poet and editor Polly Brown, and with book designer Sarah Bennett, to produce a first book. Evolution: Poems Across Seven Decades was released by Heron Pond Press in 2017. Jeanne died in May 2018, at 90, leaving many memories of shared ‟bog joy,” as her grandchildren referred to it, and these poems.
May 2018
This month’s poem was selected by Polly Brown.
Beltane—May 1
by Deborah Melone
Today is Beltane
Wear yellow flowers
Walk your cows between
The two bonfires
Leap over the flame
Garland the cattle
Leave the spirits oatcake
Drink the winy caudle
Dance round the maypole
Decked with shells today
Honor the union
Of Lord and Lady May
Strew primrose and hawthorn
At windows and doors
From the Beltane fires
Rekindle yours
Deborah Melone lives in Watertown, Massachusetts. For many years a writer and editor at a scientific consulting company, she now teaches English as a Second Language to adult students at the Watertown Public Library. She has been a member of the poetry collective Every Other Thursday since 1983, and has published in a number of magazines and journals. She has published the poetry collection Farmers’ Market and two chapbooks, Walking the Air and The Wheel of the Year.
April 2018
Near the Connecticut
by Polly Brown
Four of us travelling in one canoe—
two small enough to fit between
the paddlers—down the Connecticut,
New England’s watery spine.
We sat on a ledge in sunshine;
then, needing to pee, I climbed
to a small wood. Sun-dappled shade,
blue chinks of sky, nameless
sparrows dipping in, weaving through:
no remembered detail explains
why in that moment I woke
to our life in paradise. Which means
it could happen
almost anywhere again.
Polly Brown has organized outdoor poetry events on her hillside in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, has written about war and peace at the Joiner Institute at UMass Boston, and will lead a workshop focused on two poems by Stanley Kunitz at the 2018 Massachusetts Poetry Festival. Pebble Leaf Feather Knife, her new book of poems, will be released by Cherry Grove in 2019. The two children in this poem are now busy rearing another generation of canoeists and kayakers.
March 2018
This month’s offering is selected by Terry House, President of the Robert Creeley Foundation. Join us for Mark Doty's reading at the 2018 Creeley Foundation's annual event. Details below.
Heaven for Stanley
by Mark Doty
For his birthday, I gave Stanley a hyacinth bean,
an annual, so he wouldn’t have to wait for the flowers.
He said, Mark, I have just the place for it!
as if he’d spent ninety-eight years
anticipating the arrival of this particular vine.
I thought poetry a brace against time,
the hours held up for study in a voice’s cool saline,
but his allegiance is not to permanent forms.
His garden’s all furious change,
budding and rot and then the coming up again;
why prefer any single part of the round?
I don’t know that he’d change a word of it;
I think he could be forever pleased
to participate in motion. Something opens.
He writes it down. Heaven steadies
and concentrates near the lavender. He’s already there.
—Copyright 2005 by Mark Doty
Mark Doty is the Winner of the Eighteenth Annual Robert Creeley Award. He will be presented with the award and give a free public reading on Tuesday, March 20, 2018, at 7:30 in the Acton-Boxborough Regional High School auditorium. Hope to see you there!
Mark Doty is the author of nine books of poetry, including Deep Lane (April 2015), Fire to Fire: New and Selected Poems, which won the 2008 National Book Award, and My Alexandria, for which he was the first American to receive Great Britain's T.S. Eliot Prize. He is also the author of three memoirs: the New York Times-bestselling Dog Years, Firebird, and Heaven's Coast, as well as a book about craft and criticism, The Art of Description: World Into Word. Doty has received two NEA fellowships, Guggenheim and Rockefeller Foundation Fellowships, a Lila Wallace/Readers Digest Award, and the Witter Byner Prize.
February 2018
Poem of the Month selections can now also be accessed through my website at www.susanedwardsrichmond.com.
The Orchard in Winter
by Terry House
Storm's end quickens;
Still, wizened apples cling;
Barred owl glides
Silent as the last, slow flakes -
In their kitchen
The farmers scan
Nursery lists,
Plotting spring.
Terry House is a poet and educator living in Acton. She currently serves as President of the Robert Creeley Foundation.
January 2018
Happy New Year! Wishing our Old Frog Pond Farm community near and far a new year filled with joy and discovery. January’s poem was selected by Moira Linehan.
Reading
by Betsy Sholl
Because the titmice at the feeder are
all silk and tufted gray, and the cardinals
beautifully paired in their marriage
of subtle and brash, I have to read
the same sentence seven times,
then finally give up and study instead
the suggestions of bright red flashing
as house finches occupy the feeder.
On my lap an essay explaining
Dickinson's deft ironies, elusive
dashes and slants, so dense I have to stop
wanting to get to the end, the bottom
of anything, and just live in the drift
of phrase and clause, until once again
a feathered thing—a nuthatch heading down
a rutted trunk—catches my eye, and I
am torn like an old uneasy treaty,
within a single mind two tribes dwelling,
people of the book, yes, but also others
literate in seed husk, rain slant, cloud,
a thousand twittering tongues.
—from Late Psalm, Univ. Wisconsin Press
Betsy Sholl served as Poet Laureate of Maine from 2006 to 2011. Her eighth collection of poetry, Otherwise Unseeable (University of Wisconsin), won the 2015 Maine Literary Award for poetry. She currently teaches in the MFA Program of Vermont College of Fine Arts, and lives in Portland.
December 2017
The Shortest Day of the Year
by Wendy Mnookin
Our doors blocked by a blizzard
the two of us climbed from a window
into a world made new—
mailboxes buried, signs disappeared.
We walked on the tops of bushes,
dug until we found our car.
And dug some more.
We cleared the hood,
unburdened the windshield,
tunneled all the way to the tires.
Then what?
The roads were closed,
there was nowhere to go.
Sweating inside our layers,
we let ourselves fall
back into drift.
We had no ambition.
For minutes, or a year,
it was enough to lie there,
stunned with sun, with implacable white.
Our eyes glazed.
The frost of our breath happened.
And then we stood, clapping
our jackets free of snow,
suddenly shy
to see the imprint of wings,
so slight, it’s a wonder
we trusted ourselves at all.
From The Moon Makes Its Own Plea, BOA Editions, 2008
Wendy Mnookin’s most recent book is Dinner with Emerson (Tiger Bark Press, 2016.) The recipient of an NEA Fellowship in Writing, Wendy has taught poetry at Emerson College and Boston College. You can find out more about her writing at wendymnookin.com.