The off-and-on-again blog of Ron Mohring, whose plate is almost always overfilled. CONTENTS OF THIS BLOG ARE MIGRATING (gradually) to my new blog, The Boy Who Reads in the Trees. See top post for URL.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Today's mail brought Betsy Wheeler's Start Here, a gorgeously produced chaplet from Small Anchor Press with a very nice letterpressed cover designed by Lindsay Valentin. I've been waiting for this one . . . it's a single long poem; Betsy read several passages from it at her Bucknell reading last year and it really knocked me out. I read the whole thing in one breathless sitting. Go buy this chaplet; it's already half-sold-out.
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I promised Arlene I'd post this poem. It first appeared in Florida Review in 2005:
There are worse reasons to be caught at midnight in my neighbor’s yard, though I can’t think of any. Right now, arrested mid-reach by the hard
twin headlight beams of her Pontiac, I fish for a quick excuse. Perhaps I’ve lost my watch? There’s a knack to lying; I don’t have it. (Theft,
however, I’ve down pat.) Pockets stuffed with rattling pods, I stand unaccused. Virginia’s car groans past. I’m off the hook; the old gal’s night blind.
Her daylilies surround me: past their prime, hardly a bloom remains. In the dark, I snitch the last ripe pod: shiny seeds, obsidian
black, spill from its flared open end. They’ll keep three months in my freezer, sprout grass-thin blades in deep winter under lights I’ve rigged in my cellar.
Three years, maybe four will pass before they’re large enough to bloom. I’ll give the lion’s share away, persuade Virginia to make room.