Introductions

Balthasar van der Ast

Introductions

Some of what we love

we stumble upon—

a purse of gold thrown on the road,

a poem, a friend, a great song.

And more

discloses itself to us—

a well among green hazels,

a nut thicket—

when we are worn out searching

for something quite different.

And more

comes to us, carried

as carefully

as a bright cup of water,

as new bread.

Moya Cannon

How many of the things we love have been stumbled upon, run into, or been shown us by a friend? How many times while walking have we come around a bend to a view so unexpectedly gorgeous - a tree with leaves on fire or a corner pocket of woods crowded with Queen Anne's Lace? What about the day Mung Bean and I were talking in the schoolyard and happened to look up at what I've never seen before or since - a rainbow ring around the sun?

 

So many beautiful things have found me.

 

The cobalt feather of a Stellar Jay, a Golden Cowrie shell, a piece of worm-eaten wood that looks like a miniature landscape - that's not even getting into the books that have jumped at me, or the poems, or how a painting gripped me by the neck as my eye ran over a wall...

 

Hello, gifts.

 

Glad to meet you.

 

Fog

 

 

Dale Lockwood

 

Fog

          A vagueness comes over everything,

as though proving color and contour

alike dispensible: the lighthouse

extinct, the islands' spruce-tips

drunk up like milk in the

universal emulsion; houses

reverting into the lost 

and forgotten; granite

subsumed, a rumor

in a mumble of ocean. 

                                         Tactile

definition, however, has not been

totally banished: hanging 

tassel by tassel, panicled

foxtail and needlegrass,

dropseed, furred hawkweed,

and last season's rose-hips

are vested in silenced

chimes of the finest,

clearest sea-crystal.

                                      Opacity

opens up rooms, a showcase

for the hueless moonflower

corolla, as Georgia

O'Keefe might have seen it,

of foghorns; the nodding

campanula of bell buoys;

the ticking, linear

filigree of bird voices.

 

Amy Clampitt

 

So many times the only response to a poem I can make 

is to be quiet and read it over again.

 

Clampitt is masterful at description -

 I have nothing to say that adds to her work.

She has done it all so beautifully that I see and recognize

each detail.

 

She makes it sound obvious, simple.

It is anything but.