In autumn, through the trees and brush, a stag
pursues a doe, following close behind
as, seemingly indifferent, she attends
to her mysterious destinies. No twig
breaks as they glide past shallow ponds and down
along the well-worn trail that countless deer
have grooved into the mossy forest floor.
He breathes her scent that beckons and leads on.
Released from a concealed hunter’s bow,
an arrow passes cleanly through the prize,
which does not falter, flinch or hesitate
but shadows still the meek alluring doe.
The hunter, searching, finds the body whose
desire the shaft had rushed to consummate.
Permanent link to this post
(100 words, estimated 24 secs reading time)
Beyond All Bearing
by Susan Delaney Spear
Wipf and Stock, 2017, $16
As mousetraps capture mice and spiders capture flies, so poets capture poems – often amassing a considerable miscellany before they judge there are enough good ones to make a book. And unlike the unfortunate flies and mice, the ensnared poems are expected to live long (so the poet fondly hopes) in the benign confines of a few score pages. Poems in any collection, and especially a first, often represent a great range of occasions and moods; it’s difficult to organize them around pervasive themes, and their quality may fluctuate widely. But if, like Susan Spear, the poet has talent and a command of her craft, curious readers will be rewarded.
What is verse, after all, but rhythmic speech? The sentences we construct to express our ideas can usually be made rhythmic by means of a few adjustments. In general, but by no means always, the process involves arranging syllables so that those receiving more stress alternate with those receiving less. And lines are generally contrived to end at either grammatical junctures or rhetorical break-points. It happens that the typical phrase-lengths of much English literary prose match up quite well with tetrameter and pentameter lines of verse, so that little violence need be done to versify it. Here, for example, is the opening of John Banville’s sequel to James’s Portrait of a Lady, called Mrs. Osmond:
In the thin-sifted snow are tracks
of living things now dying of winter.
Far from the light the rank burrows
pulse with the rapid heartbeats of
small creatures struggling to stave off
……………………..the certainties of cold.
It has come down to this: this room
with bed and chair, a dirty window,
someone who will look in on him,
owing affection from the past,
small talk while waiting out the time,
……………………..blanket against the cold.
Here nuances of days mean little.
No relatives will gather round.
A futile life – will you do better? –
shames the reluctant visitor
who, debt discharged, now scurries to
……………………..the refuge of the cold.
Permanent link to this post
(110 words, estimated 26 secs reading time)