The entrails

Published : Saturday, November 24, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

We woke to white feathers under the orange tree
and the door of the coop aghast.
Our last two hens, those yogis, martyred. Unhappy auguries on polling day.
All morning the weather mumbled its sombre oracles. I’d like to hope
the birds were the last thing we had to lose
to pay for deliverance tonight. But only the saved are certain.

It turns out the fox just got…


The Other Pieces

Published : Monday, October 29, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I pick up a rock on the lakeshore,
a riverstone the glacier left,
now cleft perfectly down the middle,
a notch at one end.
This is how one feels,
half a self,
We are here, perhaps, to look for the rest of who we are,
and that could be anything—
a lake, a range, a woman,
a pink robin,…


Quartet For The End Of Time

Published : Monday, October 29, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I—Too much summer too close to home

Warm days in mid September.
Each year summer comes early
and each year we forget and
say what happened to the spring?
as though we ever had spring
on the sandstone coast of this
dry-eyed island, inching its
way north to the equator.

And then whatever we’re call-
ing the season goes and…


Rules for Walking

Published : Tuesday, August 28, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I have a general theory: keep going.
I have a rider: watch for transitions.
And another: beware false summits.

Prepare for the walk
by taking the walk.
Go a little faster than you should
and a little slower than you’d like.
Notice the pink mountain berry
brilliant as a hooker’s lipstick,
the pink robin on the…


Lake St Clair Cycle

Published : Tuesday, August 28, 2007 | Label:   Poems  


Walking the other sunny afternoon
along the Frankland Sands
I heard a fish jump in shallows.
The sound drew me, and then it drew the fish,
small and sleek and insouciant, translucent as the water,
which was so shallow and so tannin-clear
I could make out easing along the lakebed beneath
the shadow of the fish.
That, I thought,



I matured late as a poet. If maturing is what you’d call it.

A lot of my writing students, women and men in their middle years, say they wrote poetry when they were young. They say it as though it’s a thing one outgrows; for me it’s a thing I grew into. I didn’t write many poems until I was forty; suddenly it’s most of what I write. I guess I was making myself ready, and poetry’s a… Read More...


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