poet
Preparing for tomorrow’s class, I remembered this essay from 2012 posted on Books New Haven:
Why are people so afraid of poetry? That’s a question that’s been plaguing poet Amy Nawrocki, of Hamden. Now, with her new collection, Lune de Miel, being released in August, she talks …
Source: Is poetry too hard? Amy Nawrocki, Hamden poet, gives a resounding NO and explains why
Copies of Lune de Miel, which came out in 2012 can be purchased by clicking the tab: Purchase Signed Copies.
To celebrate the forthcoming publication of my husband Eric D. Lehman‘s novella Shadows of Paris, I’m posting this poem, not of Paris exactly, but when you read Shadows, you’ll know why this poem makes sense. The characters in his beautifully crafted story also “know something of transformation,” but that’s all I’ll say. You should discover it for yourself. Make your pilgrimage to Homebound Publications and buy your copy. Click again to get Lune de Miel, where this poem first appeared.
Pilgrim at Auvers
The pigeons at L’eglise Notre Dame know something
of transformation. White broods in a sky that has forgotten
color and the silhouette of clouds. A quiet stroll
through narrow, charcoal streets led me here,
up ancient stone steps to the church where Vincent
van Gogh saw blue-black sky churn in flight around
the toasted edifice. The flock perches until the hint
of something migratory and innate calls them to stir;
in hues of gray they erupt in a smooth arc, returning
to roost on the slants of the high, tilted steeple.
Winter weighs endurance and transition as stone erodes
to dust, leaves compost to mud, and summer flowers
that steadily surveyed August afternoons convert
to dried stalks in frozen dirt. Pilgrims, too, know of shifts
and I walk into the warm and lonely church to wait
for language to come again to my cold lips.
Fifteen hundred hours toll from the bell tower,
a grave listens at the top of the hill, and a downcast sun
aches to paint maize onto the bare winter scroll.
What to say of tomorrow’s
slow steps? The peaks that rise
from Glencoe carry weathered echoes
and gorges sliver slowly without
sympathy. The only way
to plea away erosion
is to chart the heart’s geology
and listen to the bagpiper’s
ageless song. The only way
to get up the mountain
is hand in hand.
for Eric
From Four Blue Eggs, published by Homebound Publications. Celebrate 5 years independent publishing, order your copy today, and give it to your mom.
On My Mother’s Seventy-third Birthday
The hike is pleasant; the trail markers
are new, ferns and mountain laurel bloom
along the path. A soft whispering breeze
says something about remembrances
and a flimsy gasp escapes from my lungs.
Wishing for its own voice, a trickle of water
inches down a slope of jagged rocks as if
wanting just to touch something, however cool.
In a clearing, I see across the rounded tops of trees
into the valley and into the complex
gathering of green—the heart of June,
new and curious. Yet, everything seems
to be empty. Despite the emeralds
all I spy are gaps; rifts appear where leaves
and bark separate, the gulf between earth
and sky is full of ever-present grey stones.
More than a half-life has passed
since we wondered whether the hair
she was losing would grow back black
or peppered with white ash, but I cannot
remember what we decided. Memory
in its detachment, is as insufficient
as a summer waterfall.
I wrote “Hunger” as the introductory poem for A History of Connecticut Food: A Proud Tradition of Puddings, Clambakes, and Steamed Cheeseburgers, which I co-wrote with Eric D. Lehman and me. Pick up a copy today–a perfect complement for cookouts, farmers’ markets and the pick-your-own summer bounty.
Hunger
What if the egg
never cracked or the slick moon
of a spoon never borrowed broth
from the blackened kettle
to meet our lips?
What if the apple tree
never shook in a spring storm
or a mantle of snow
never foretold future greens
and silky yellows?
If the cook never tested the pie
or the famished traveler
never asked for seconds,
whose heart would break
with meringue’s collapse
or the steak’s charred crust
folding toward a knife edge?
How would we nourish
our labors if not with
the earth’s capacity to feed us
and the tongue’s aptitude
for savoring?
How would we find
our true selves, spice and all,
without plunging hands
into a mound of dough
or stealing a lick with sloppy fingers?
Who will butter our bread
if not the crepuscular calls
of hunger from which we have
happily never escaped?
The Thinker as Poet
Aus der Erfahrung des Denkens
—Martin Heidegger
How like a whisper the wind
engaging the cup of my ear.
How like a shout these echoing
passages filter northwest to southeast.
How like a growl the rustling leaves request
channel from shadows to true
existence.
How like a thought disappearing
into thin air these pages ruffling beneath
my pen beneath a passing sun
beneath the loud, enchanting
chimes of Sunday in spring.
This poem appears in Four Blue Eggs, published by Homebound Publications in 2014. Make your purchase of the full collection here.
Our class activity today in my Contemporary Poetry class was to create a blackout poem. I used Howard Nemerov’s poem “On Being Asked for a Peace Poem” (1973) from The 20th Century in Poetry. Happy National Poetry Month.
Curds and Whey
“Blessed are the cheesemakers.”
~Monty Python, Life of Brian
Temperatures regulate
and acid swirls; curds curdle
and tell reluctantly
of brown bearded goats
chomping grass
with pliant teeth and wandering
eyes. Far off in a kitchen.
the maker, with her chewed
apron and dangling cross
waits sourly for the spider.
Stone Harbor
rocks: amalgam of minerals
condensed space, boulders of infinity
and pebble-like acuteness
temple builders
misbehaving polygons
companion of trees; envious
of light eaters, their spiraling wood centers
and the green
perplexity of veins
the philosopher’s hourglass
kinesthetic anchors
between the sphere’s smooth,
unfinished edges and the jagged
catastrophe of no ending
havens of pressure
harbor masters
jetsam of intransience, compressed
and scattered, weathered and beaten,
spit and shine
Thanks to Peter Everett and all the students from Housatonic Community College for inviting me to speak and sharing their ideas about point of view, perspective and crafting a voice in poetry. Special thanks to my former student James Novoa spending your day off with me and for snapping a few pictures. Videos to come.
Amy Nawrocki 