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Download After-music: Poems by Conrad Hilberry PDF

By Conrad Hilberry

After-Music is a different and wealthy choice of meditations on either the non-public and common. among the exciting locations, humans, and occasions that Hilberry brings to existence in those poems are looking at manatees in a Florida canal, a reluctant priest blessing the animals in Mexico, a rushed and sullen checkout woman within the grocery store, and Day of the lifeless skeletons that shape a mariachi band. even supposing a few of the poems are formal in sonnets, quatrains, and tetrameter many of the poems are loose verse, making them available and relaxing interpreting.

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Leaves folded back like hands—giving or asking? Stem cut, raked to the heap, some pollen flies even now—even in these autumn tailings. Petals, no point in closing, around what? The careless equinox has taken it, song with a short shelf-life, a child’s hum or mine. All lost in the fall: scent, seed, the fine yellow dust of spores, scattered down the unmarked trails of the air. Open. Hopeless and open. q Not like a book. Or the top of the red car where a woman, waiting, rests one hand on the wheel.

We’ve been acquainted only since last Friday, but I can feel some new air edging in around your bed, your kitchen table. The cabin settles into sumac and the dog sleeps. Another clue might roll its eyes or lean a little toward the camera. Not me. I’m just a slash in old paint. If homicide shows up, I’ll drape a spider web across my loin. But I’ll be here, the child of rage, your child. Touch my deep diagonal, leftover lightning. Follow my falling line into the larger dark. Even the bitterest rain can sink into sand, collect in the crevasses of rock, and lose itself in the river’s lurch and surge and pause.

19 20 Op e n The open soul / is a lost soul . . —Dabney Stuart Desultory air curls in, twists on a pliant stem, moves on to nudge the curtain and the late begonias on the dresser. The soul itself at season’s end, petals, phrases spoken somewhere— or unspoken—touched by that circling wind. Leaves folded back like hands—giving or asking? Stem cut, raked to the heap, some pollen flies even now—even in these autumn tailings. Petals, no point in closing, around what? The careless equinox has taken it, song with a short shelf-life, a child’s hum or mine.

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