October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
I shall infuriate this piece of parchment with a discussion of stars or some other unaltered thought which could be set forth as musician to this universe. Fragile parchment on a night of forgetfulness, reach somewhere into distant architecture, for it is the somber hour of the beast virus, stopped by no cries from our hearts. Watching the thunderstorm of countryside colors covering October Mountain, I agree that the almond moon is a trusted old image etched on the reflections of much older myth. So from rain-glittered thunderstorms I will stain your parchments with a falling darkness to remember.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
You who made, after several trips to the shore, these beach mosaics, can tell how I have remembered the sayings which will not tarnish, how I have taken true voices and let them fall through my fingers, remorse of the heart the sleepy ancients admired which they used to create the star patterns overhead. You sought after comets and set your clocks to the Latin of an oldest Christmas. Tell me those sayings. Sing creation falling, touch it upon the harp, for you must remember that body which has lost all, lost all and lost configurations, and lost evening music.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
The woods are stinging for glory. Acorns under a starry night. Before midnight, the hickory logs will be used to start another bonfire. The pony pulls on his rope, firmly tied to a post. Somebody has already chopped the firewood. Last night, the brittle ice formed on the pools. Somehow, you turn out some bitter camper’s coffee–you let it boil for awhile in an old iron pot over an open log fire. If you stay in this territory, it will be because this bitter coffee tastes good in your cup after another hour of rain has fallen in it.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Bricks will teach you everything you need, especially five stories of basic brick arranged like a complete education. Or is it nine stories of brick, tottering high among the trees and distant sky until you wonder why? Brickwork tells its own story, has its own legend. That’s how it is with the Olde Columbine schoolhouse, that mystery under blue-gray rainclouds. If you would walk by the Olde Columbine schoolhouse to observe the ruins of American history, I would be charmed, and I would not mind at all if you think of me in it laboring nights, getting it ready.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Poetry was something left in the stars like a trace of old smoke. It is the language of symphonies and the language of night in violent conversation. It is old words turned into a black art which saints may set forth like whirling fire in their religious fury. Poetry herself dreams of a complete midnight where the world’s wild colors flourish. In the waters of dawn, you may come to the garden of poetry where the flowers are reddening out whatever remains of night’s traces. Poetry is the neutron and the diamond, the french kiss under Spanish moss; brain vitamins.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Tangling across pine cone paths while the moon sets against dark indigo, wild raspberries are growing again this year. Time for the fiery poems autumn inspires. We are walking on moss beds as before. Wild raspberries are growing everywhere. We’re like little children, eating the tinted fruit under burning stars. We keep our jewelled fingers high in dancing. “Come inside cool moon shadows,” she says, entranced, “for I’ll give you awareness of rhyme’s inner sparkling.” Wild raspberries are growing again. We hold lanterns late at night over the pine cone path. Fill your apron, Carrie, full with wild red raspberries.
