- The Ghost of an Ox Visits the Broken Yoke
- Matins at Penparc
- The Blind Boy and his Beast
 |
The Ghost of an Ox Visits the Broken Yoke In the absence of memory, the wooden thing, splintering, is mere curiosity. Nonetheless the ox, his strong back relaxed, feels drawn to it, returns daily to sit by it, thinking. "Git up, gee! Gee!" the ox seems to hear it say, and he’s almost nudged from contentment. But, in the distance, like large snowflakes on the mountain peak, sheep graze mechanically, growing their coats. Andrea Selch 2006 Reproduced with the kind permission of the poet. |
| Carolina Wren Press |
 Garden Flight |
Matins at Penparc (St. Francis) Though he tries to tamp them down, his memories come through his dreams and memories of dreams, how many years he hunted glory, clanging about the countryside on his father’s horse, or worse, in cities: what wasn’t stage for his dilation was his green room, all his own. The moment’s past where he could (and did) strip off all the raiment that suddenly was not his own, orphaning himself, naked as the day he was born. Funny—he didn’t feel at all forsaken, not the least bit, just a little cold. Now, he’s that a thousand-fold, and also old. But, before his begging bowl is filled, the morning prayers must still be sung, and Francis in his ragged tunic stands above the garden and says Our Father where the sparrows and the long-tailed tits, the bullfinches and chaffinches flit among dahlias in their bishops’ caps, bellflowers and the late-blooming toad lilies. The birds, despite their finery, are always poor and do not dream—even of harmony, mild spring wind. Andrea Selch 2006 Reproduced with the kind permission of the poet. |
| Carolina Wren Press |
 The Blind Boy and his Beast |
The Blind Boy and His Wolf Blood is the texture of the meeting of wolf and dog. And after the growls and yelps died away I felt it flaking from the wolf’s pelt as he leaned into me in greeting, Enough boy, enough. Like a wave he rolled in, swallowed my dog. Blind since birth, I cannot picture him Cadmium, Madder and Black, with a slanted Siberian eye, but ask why should he stay with me? Why? Blood is the texture of the meeting of wolf and dog, and to destroy, the wolf’s ploy. And now, with a wolf for eyes, tout-le-monde seems prey and runs from us though he is tame and I, Hervé. Andrea Selch 2008 Reproduced by kind permission of the poet. |
| Carolina Wren Press |