Hello all. I hope no one is melting in the summer heat. Here in MD we have been sizzling in humidity and high temperatures the last few days. I can’t believe how hot this June has been, particularly compared to last June when I think we only had 5 days of sun the entire month and the crops flooded out. It’s been a while since I have posted. Here are some things I meant to post a few weeks ago: a book list and some favorite poems. What are some of your poetry book lists/recommended reading?
- Opened Ground: Poems 1966-1996 by Seamus Heaney
- Fishing the Secrets of the Dead by Meredith Davies Hadaway
- Brutal Imagination by Cornelius Eady
- What the Living Do, by Marie Howe
- Animals of Habit by Catherine Pierce
- American Primitive by Mary Oliver
- The Leaving: New and Selected Poems by Sue Ellen Thompson
- God Particles by Thomas Lux
- Voices by Lucille Clifton
- The Temperature of This Water by Ishle Yi Park
Rehoboth Beach, July 17, 1999
The moment it occurs to me,
the afternoon sky folds heat back
into the sand and a moist wind rattles
the magazine in my fingers. I hear a woman
calling over the surf.
One small child comes apart from a knot
of children splashing in the shallows.
The woman, leaving, it seems. The child,
receiving instruction, holds a wisp of blonde hair
from her eyes, nodding yes, yes.
And then it is over.
A dutiful hug, the woman turning
to shake out her towel, the little girl calling
behind her, Grandma, bye!
and back to the game.
I tuck my magazine into a canvas bag and watch the sun
go grey. This is the day the world turns childless.
-Meredith Davies Hadaway. Fishing Secrets of the Dead. WordTech Communications, 2005.
When you have nothing more to say, just drive
For a day all round the peninsula.
The sky is tall as over a runway,
The land without marks, so you will not arrive
But pass through, though always skirting landfall.
At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill,
The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable
And you’re in the dark again. Now recall
The glazed foreshore and silhouetted log,
That rock where breakers shredded into rags,
The leggy birds stilted on their own legs,
Islands riding themselves out of the fog,
And drive back home, still with nothing to say
Except that now you will uncode all landscapres
By this: things founded clean on their own shapes
Water and ground in their extremity.
-Seamus Heaney. Opened Ground: Poems 1966-1996. Faber and Faber. London, 1996.