This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2010-02-11 21:46:26 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Point Road Snow

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. W. Stevens The Snow Man What happened? Well, we went into it. On horseback, in ox-carts, afoot, Wagon loads west went, stayed, died. How their children stayed warm: Inside buffalo hides, sod huts. Where burned the peat fires now The distillates of an old swamp Dry the linens and our blue genes. Few there are who recall the long drought; Gone are the shears and blades Who knew the songs of wild grasses. Daddy's gone; Mama's goin' - Yes - as are we - Was that a Ford jus' went by? When we came out of it We'd been convinced that only Our boots were wet, worn, cold. So simple, so honest. A great feast was had. Look back over your shoulder Every now & then, And once in awhile Just to know how, why. How lovely is that snow That early warning sign Still melting here on my dock; The bass hunting in shadows, shallows, The red and burnt oranges of maples, A ripple on the skin of the gray lake. Here lies the history of man, Here, close to the water. An early snow, the falling leaves, Silence so loud I shiver. There's cold clay beneath my feet, and My name's on the post near the road. Come on in; sit by the fire. Tell us a new story.

Copyright © February 2010 Thomas Edward Wright

This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2010-03-02 18:11:10
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Thomas, This I like. I feel like pulling up to your fire and telling you of things you haven't heard. You sound like an old codger whose been there, done that.......let's chew the fat. You owe it to us youngsters to share. The clay lays cold under my feet too. Dellena

This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2010-02-24 11:10:28
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
TEW I dunno. Those peat fires are awfully smelly. The last story I told encouraged a whole bunch of people to go West. And look what happened to THEM. And you reckon YOU shivered. MAH
This Poem was Critiqued By: Terry A On Date: 2010-02-17 00:15:00
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
The last two stanzas, I really, really liked. It's so rare nowadays to hear a voice that -has time- for a new story. Really lovely, gentle lines, Eden-like. Maybe it took the first part of the poem to get to the second part 'Just to know, how, why.', but the second part has the magic. Terry p.s. What's W. Steven's doing in your poem?
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2010-02-15 16:51:14
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
I'm making fry bread. People are coming. We tell stories. We listen. You come too.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2010-02-13 09:28:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
TEW, There is something in the nothing that is nothing (as Stevens said, leaving out the "something" - pregnant ellipsis). But the something is warm to flesh, entertaining, and beautiful. Their is a god in the transience; he dies, and rises again. Where have I heard that? MSS PS - I like this the first time. Still due.
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