October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
In nebular cantos, the starry-eyed cantos, the evergreen century releases its spectacular flags. Electrical storms are innocent, gathering rain like old words in an evergreen-emerald canto. I view night after night them detonating the sculptured rose, the scripture of rock that night takes to the poor–a stillness of my own, though reason is my endgame. The graveyard is the reason the centuries storm the last red rose, pulse-red and rooted in the ancient blue moon mounted above the canyon. Don’t burn the evergreens in a ritual storm. Let reason be your rose allegro, crystal, raven-hearted.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Words are the cup I drink from, containing my perceptions and restorations. Words set blazing in me even as I put them down, rivers of restorative color that medicate me as does Schubert here and there. Jeremy Fire, you must be honest to lift the great song. Don’t let old memory get lost in the woods. The butterfly wing and tear light are native here. Words are the cup I drink from. Schirra I will remember when a lot of other things are ruins. Strike up the music for a page of poetry. “The poet speaks syllables of mangled silver.”
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
In the river, crosscurrents. Under a stand of trees at the bank, ice shelves are covered with twigs and grass. From the bridgerail we ask about the age of the river in the sun, lovely for its alluvial deposit of memory in us, song sung blue. A poor creation is my dreaming if I do not learn from the dazzling dress of nature and the sudden wind at streambanks. An inner conversation like rain coming down in us is us, from age sixteen and forward. And these things are crosscurrents, memories of our married love and sirens raspberry, cranberry, vivid.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Cool door, never changing your view that beauty is density. Your slanted window glitters more when dry leaves blow down around you, admitting more light into your chamber. Bless the dance that never breaks down, the detonation of finishing for awhile with the ongoing. Bless the tree of words that also loses something in winter and therefore admits more light. The chords break off on the carillon, but their delicate structures, their delicate music makes a marathon of our good days, an unbroken lustre. I etch a mountain shadow. It is my tribute, and I do studies of the rock.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Be steady in the fire-river of scholarship and the dead will hear. Life and death, photographic negative, photographic positive. Some daughters live; some were alive and are now memories, but the configuration of them touches an eternity. In the wild, we all love in unison. The snowstorm like shredded coconut has hit the city. In this moment, we hear a word from Sibyl. She has a formula in mind to stop the clock. She and Heather share these rich understandings. I shall write them down in this English of mine and find a great home in my unnamed need.
