My Grandmother's Province
The Atlantic receives on an average as manyr as 1500 poems a month. They come as frequently from men as from women, and are evidence of an interest in poetry which never slackens. As an incentive for those uriters yet unestablished, ue shall from time to time devote a number of pages to the work of young poets.
by ALLYN WEISSTEIN
SHE embarked
From Hesperia cornered by four carved pineapples.
In the hour when things rise from the deep,
The long cool mouth engulfed her.
From Hesperia cornered by four carved pineapples.
In the hour when things rise from the deep,
The long cool mouth engulfed her.
Remembrance must go calliope’s way
Down-river rain bowed in the great wheels’ spray.
The buried captains raise their mossy heads —
Old snapping turtles sunken in the hills,
Stone-backed and wrinkle-eyed, perhaps not dead
Put paralyzed by the dreaming of the town
Whose murmurs trickle into mole-pierced cars.
Down-river rain bowed in the great wheels’ spray.
The buried captains raise their mossy heads —
Old snapping turtles sunken in the hills,
Stone-backed and wrinkle-eyed, perhaps not dead
Put paralyzed by the dreaming of the town
Whose murmurs trickle into mole-pierced cars.
Cold from the night sweat of the curfew’s chime
Where the Seven Sisters climb
With taloned fingers, tendriled stairways still;
More restless than the moon that draws its charts
Plack and bone-white of the hidden rocks,
Sandbars, and driftwood trees that shiver
Keels once worn tattooed above their hearts,
The ghost pulse of the captains moves the river.
Where the Seven Sisters climb
With taloned fingers, tendriled stairways still;
More restless than the moon that draws its charts
Plack and bone-white of the hidden rocks,
Sandbars, and driftwood trees that shiver
Keels once worn tattooed above their hearts,
The ghost pulse of the captains moves the river.
This was my grandmother’s province;
She whom we buried in such mist
Perhaps the lilies covered a canoe
That floated her, like an Indian, to the Ohio.
She whom we buried in such mist
Perhaps the lilies covered a canoe
That floated her, like an Indian, to the Ohio.
Where, having burdened her with Paradise,
Her concerts ended, now she makes
Portage past waterfalls of lace
And all those roses reaching from the stage
Into a night that captains would forbear;
We, in the motionless tapestry of chase
Stand for a prayer, and marmalade and toast —
Lost Dauphins, mirror-strangers minted
From one medallion ghost.
Her concerts ended, now she makes
Portage past waterfalls of lace
And all those roses reaching from the stage
Into a night that captains would forbear;
We, in the motionless tapestry of chase
Stand for a prayer, and marmalade and toast —
Lost Dauphins, mirror-strangers minted
From one medallion ghost.