13 May 2011

Maureen N. McLane

[from Maureen N. McLane’s World Enough, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010]

Passage III [excerpt]

wavelap and lakeslap lick
         the ear; the air carries
                  stripes in the
         low precincts of sky –
a mower blares somewhere
         above A and
                  shuts off a
         shock of
                  silence
into which the wave-
         slaps surge



to enter the water
in Mayan
to die



over there the gray
         gathering
                  sheath meant
                           rain
but our private sun
         continues to sign-
post a clear day at least
         for us.
an earthquake
         in China
                  means
         precisely what
                  to me
         wondered Adam Smith –
the world disappearing
         the instant my tooth aches: Sartre

my skin some days
                  extends
         as wide as the sea
and the waves of the world
         roll through, equable
                  terrible
but I am living this narrow
         life and no other
         except yours I imagine
                  some days we’re graced
                           or grazed by a shared bullet



today no thrush silvered the air
         in the woods
the wind blowing hard
         against the bike
passing a stretch of field
         where tractors for miles around
                  come to die
the iron congregation rusting
         faithful as the grass.
the cows at Saywards Farm seemed
         too confined
why aren’t they grazing in the field and why
         are their calves
                  wired in –
late last night
         after the sunset
         I did not see
the lake took on that babyish hue
         I so love and I saw
a sole balloon aloft lifting over Vergennes
         puffing by Camel’s Hump
and heading east –
         we have harnessed the air
                  for our pleasure
                  our leisure a rhyme
         with the weather
                  clearing as if the
                  skies cared
                  or could



radios and weathervanes
conduct the air
disperse manes



mountains deforested
         by distance
Hokusai shapes cut
         against the
         sky the clouds
                  address just
                  so
and through the same air
                  the radio pours
         its usual brew of cheer & death
         what wonder little schizo
                  you reel so
         in the fractured world
the sky bends to my way
         and to yours and to home
         sweet home

1 comment:

  1. As a flatlander who once lived up in Vermont, the words "Camel's Hump" caught my eye. This poem brought those Vermont places and sounds back clearly but it has other layers too that I'm still trying to grasp. I love it.
    Hope your doing well, Carol.

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