SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005

ALAN HILL

 

A field in November

 

Freshly ploughed,

Turned over like a waiting bed.

Alluvial tsunami lines

Crowned by late November sun

Shining like a sheet of hammered lead.

 

The earth lies startlingly still,

Like a day old corpse,

All surprise emissions spent.

No movement left to indicate a breath

Or that there ever had been life,

No warmth to indicate a flow of blood.

 

Land

In reptilian passivity,

Stalking, 

Waiting for its prey

To stumble closer

In a rash attempt to drink.

 

On the field’s edge

A cord of clay

Unsure of where allegiance lies.

Sucking on my percolating boots,

Like a baby at its mother’s breast,

Enticing me to wade. 

 

 

Roscoe Holcomb, Virginian  

 

The resin of the raw wood smoke

Introverted clings

To every naked inch of morning light

As the molecules of day arrive

Packed tightly as a box of figs

Or survivors on a raft

To rub the splintered edge of pine

Across the out-stretched arms of stripling sun

To catch the residue of tar spat out

Through remnants of the porch stacked old        

 

 The banjo string

Baited in to feral shape

Stretching out its European peasant roots

Conjuring the antique pattern

Of the fossil chord

Holding up the beating heart

To bloody mark the path

 

 Here the dislocated black and white are one

An articulation of a faith

That has no words

Needs no living memory

The tongueless ones that live among the trees

To touch the dark and ancient breath of birds      

 

 

Next Page