All posts filed under: Gardening

‘Fugue’ and other poems by Chelsea Dingman

British Columbia Pastoral   September: almost snow. White sheets across the sky, the fields. How strange   the frost, feral over desert hills. Sage brush caught in the cattle’s   teeth. The river cuts a swath where I am trying to tell you about grass   that presses up through the ground without urging. About merciless suns   taking our eyes. You shield your mouth as I speak. The wars I won’t admit   like dying daisies, their corpses linting the grass. In summer, we swam in the Thompson   River. In feral heat. Baptized new again. The kites of our bodies cutting   a swath through green water. But as water rises in spring, it will take you   with it. With thawed glaciers & snow. With bones we can’t make smaller   once grown. Dead trees claw at rocks on the river- bottom, swollen belly   of a child rising up like a balloon in the April sun.   (Originally published in Sugar House Review)   Accident Report: After the Baby Dies at …

‘Wild Fennel’ and other poems by Tess Barry

Raspberries I started out in western Pennsylvania hills with wild raspberry and blackberry bushes and my mother’s apple field. Bread and ripe fruit and fresh milk. My mother cleaned the carpet right off the floor. My father was a Troy Hill boy who played piano and smoked Pall Malls and drank whiskey. He won my mother in a dance contest. Who wouldn’t learn to jitterbug for a prize like her? They took a train to Cape Cod for a honeymoon and bought hats for their mothers. They sailed all the way from the Cape to ten children. My whole life has been ripe with wild fruit. All the men I’ve loved had left feet. I was innocent until I got myself a good pair of rain boots. There is no point in wondering what I’ll come to. With my first words I wrote my own path straight to New York: all night accents, brick stoops. I left there like a mad dog running free like our Dusty who got himself killed down the street, chasing …

‘Sequence after Celan’ by Gillian Prew

Sequence after Celan 1 Spring: trees flying up to their birds where the sun is the seeds are freed their small sound a wound like death watercoloured and open each foliated lung with its breathing understory the climb of springtime into the loud light sky filled with dove-coloured words 2 the climbed evening is thick with lung-scrub a nocturne of oxygen of spring sillage the raising of the dead and their flowers the night deer with hooves of heather the precision of an owl in *rooted darkness in the tangled bramble a knot of blood 3 water needles stitch up the split shadow-he fights his way deeper down, free rain wholly itself a breathing torrent hitting the half-lit a million microdazzles a mouse mud-buried a blinking scut the fluency of a softer death a spring nothingness a heart-smoke 4 in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air up the sky bitten open the sun exhumed clouds bud and bloom with roots of rain 5 All things, even the heaviest, were fledged, nothing, …

“St Christina’s Gut” and other poems (series) by Clare McCotter

Saint Teresa’s Heart   Claiming it a charism too diamond for the dark they hung her heart out to dry in a glass globe. Scraped and chafed with a life story the walls of its chambers reverberate still. A girl calling out to another, scratches gold swallows and nival lilies on woodwork none can unravel. A mystic with inquisitorial breath brimming the nape of her neck etches on stone: he has no body but my own immaculate and shining in fields of barley this flesh has flown. A nun crossing night’s cedar soul, writes on an acre of snow: O my sisters this I left, leaving only entrails filled with stars and garnets. An old woman contemplating a wide geranium sky pencils in its margins: morning has come all is light and all are inexorably pierced peregrine and moons circling earth’s fine tilth.   Saint Teresa’s Heart published Abridged 0-39 (March 2015), p. 12. (Revised since publication)   Saint Christina’s Gut   Of all the trees my favourite this sea green turning silver pine roosting me …

“Foraois Bháistí” agus dánta eile le Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Foraois Bháistí   I mbreacsholas na maidine, leagaim uaim an scuab nuair a aimsím radharc nach bhfacthas cheana   ag dealramh ar an mballa: fuinneog úr snoite as solas, líonta le duilleog-dhamhsa. Múnlaíonn géaga crainn   lasmuigh na gathanna gréine d’fhonn cruthanna dubha a chur ag damhsa ar an mballa fúthu, an duilliúr ina chlúmh   tiubh glas, an solas ag síothlú is ag rince tríothu. Fuinneog dhearmadta ar dhomhain eile atá ann, áit agus am   caillte i gcroí na Brasaíle, áit a shamhlaím fear ag breathnú ar urlár na foraoise, ar an mbreacscáth ann, faoi dhraíocht   ag imeartas scáile, dearmad déanta aige ar an léarscáil, ar an bpár atá ag claochlú ina lámh: bánaithe anois,   gan rian pinn air níos mó, gan ach bearna tobann ag leá amach roimhe. Airíonn sé coiscéim   agus breathnaíonn sé siar thar a ghualainn, mar a bhreathnaímse thar mo ghualainn anois,   ach ní fheiceann ceachtar againn éinne. Níl éinne ann.   Rainforest   In morning’s piebald light. I set aside my duster on finding …