Day of the Child ebbs and flows, expanding and contracting, reflective of the altered movement of time that passes through the tangle of motherhood and childhood.
Day of the Child ebbs and flows, expanding and contracting, reflective of the altered movement of time that passes through the tangle of motherhood and childhood.Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.
Arra Lynn Ross is the author of Day of the Child and Seedlip and Sweet Apple. She is a poet, essayist, and puppet worker whose work has appeared in Passages North, Fourth Genre, River Teeth, Denver Quarterly, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, Birmingham Poetry Review, Antioch Review, and the Iowa Review. She lives in Michigan.
Inhaltsangabe
CONTENTS a poem [1] The time-passing: your waterproof watch reads [3] derive not first from reason. Of Passion [5] By the time you are five, we make metaphors [7] You move too fast to catch, erasing, from mind [9] Go back to the boy jumping in barn hay [11] Again, morning's make: walking, a mother deer [13] Uphold heaven-humble & hurting, here-rapt [15] More magic: Morning. Choose a card, remember [17] Early light winds loose the air balloon curtains. [19] Inside me I saw your heart. Made visible [21] Seven years blink: on river, rain's ink and bow [23] made meal. Of butterflies & milkweed & moon [25] My own: on the hard floor, refuses [27] and dappled bay until the river, morning gray [29] The thread thins. December. Paris [31] -Fine snow settles on the locusts' fallen branches [33] in plastic cups the milky liquid poured. [35] Of what is made merriment? Or, Innate [37] Until we make late February. Snow's [39] In the Living Room, the staple gun claps [41] I sing what you cannot hear in spoken words: [43] A verb-poem. In winter, he writes: Blossoms [45] September 21, 2012: you (five) over me rolled [47] by what-you-would-become. Un-willed [49] "With all my heart," nuzzling his bed head [51] Spring blinks. Then, August's amber light. The cicada [53] and the bright blue blurred, in air, away. Ancient chant [55] The blue ball lies on the thick lawn, half-shadow [57] If I could, again: us, on the back deck, in sun [59] I waited for you to say you love me [61] I had a lot of fun, but now I'm old and gray [63] (would, of him, make a single blip) and trace [65] Children, perhaps, more than any, know, their bones [67] The butterflies are hatching in Dow Gardens' [69] A day of hardness in the heart, though I run [71] After dragging to Flagler's frog fountain [73] Some redbud saplings have not, I think, made it [75] as his father sifts for shark's teeth among shells [77] I go far away, to write. To Belgium [79] At nine, you come, most, to me, hurt or angry [81] The Narrow roads I walk, outside Olsene [83] when by me in the dusk my child sits down [85] By your works shall ye be known, my paper-folder [87] A kind of intoxication, rising up [89] I hang, on the line, laundry's smell like wind. [91] Near evening. Long-limbed, tawny, lacquered shadows [93] Fever-gaunt, trembling, short of breath to speak [95] me half-way down the gravel, rain-rutted, drive [97] Learning to speak, you would mirror our words [99] Big elephant hang up towel, you said
CONTENTS a poem [1] The time-passing: your waterproof watch reads [3] derive not first from reason. Of Passion [5] By the time you are five, we make metaphors [7] You move too fast to catch, erasing, from mind [9] Go back to the boy jumping in barn hay [11] Again, morning's make: walking, a mother deer [13] Uphold heaven-humble & hurting, here-rapt [15] More magic: Morning. Choose a card, remember [17] Early light winds loose the air balloon curtains. [19] Inside me I saw your heart. Made visible [21] Seven years blink: on river, rain's ink and bow [23] made meal. Of butterflies & milkweed & moon [25] My own: on the hard floor, refuses [27] and dappled bay until the river, morning gray [29] The thread thins. December. Paris [31] -Fine snow settles on the locusts' fallen branches [33] in plastic cups the milky liquid poured. [35] Of what is made merriment? Or, Innate [37] Until we make late February. Snow's [39] In the Living Room, the staple gun claps [41] I sing what you cannot hear in spoken words: [43] A verb-poem. In winter, he writes: Blossoms [45] September 21, 2012: you (five) over me rolled [47] by what-you-would-become. Un-willed [49] "With all my heart," nuzzling his bed head [51] Spring blinks. Then, August's amber light. The cicada [53] and the bright blue blurred, in air, away. Ancient chant [55] The blue ball lies on the thick lawn, half-shadow [57] If I could, again: us, on the back deck, in sun [59] I waited for you to say you love me [61] I had a lot of fun, but now I'm old and gray [63] (would, of him, make a single blip) and trace [65] Children, perhaps, more than any, know, their bones [67] The butterflies are hatching in Dow Gardens' [69] A day of hardness in the heart, though I run [71] After dragging to Flagler's frog fountain [73] Some redbud saplings have not, I think, made it [75] as his father sifts for shark's teeth among shells [77] I go far away, to write. To Belgium [79] At nine, you come, most, to me, hurt or angry [81] The Narrow roads I walk, outside Olsene [83] when by me in the dusk my child sits down [85] By your works shall ye be known, my paper-folder [87] A kind of intoxication, rising up [89] I hang, on the line, laundry's smell like wind. [91] Near evening. Long-limbed, tawny, lacquered shadows [93] Fever-gaunt, trembling, short of breath to speak [95] me half-way down the gravel, rain-rutted, drive [97] Learning to speak, you would mirror our words [99] Big elephant hang up towel, you said
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