This Far by Kathleen O'Toole

Author:Kathleen O'Toole
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Paraclete Press
Published: 2019-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Heist

Mt. St. Angelo, VA

I.

The bay horse trots into a universe of birds—

auto exhaust, train whistle and thrust; into a realm

where chicken wire ignites with lasers, cricket chant.

A high-spirited chestnut snorts, annoyed by this intrusion, insistent flies—

tail slap, whinny … then the two head off into the meadow

October sun glints on haunches, horsetails

flicking out into traffic hum over the ridge top.

II.

If hope is the thing with feathers, Emily, in what language does it speak?

Deception colonizes this hilltop.

Impossible to discern the original tu-ee, tu-ee of the rufous-sided towhee,

Northern cardinal chee, chee, or sparrow arpeggio

in its original key, when a flock

of mockingbirds transpose it all into their high decibel diatribe,

flashy imitation of avian sonata.

Still eavesdropping’s ubiquitous here:

poets, composers, hungry for sound bits, abound …

better them than national intelligence omnivores.

III.

Try as they might, two inspired sound sculptors

have so far failed to incite a trans-species duet;

no efficient means to seduce the melody of September

crickets. Strands of human hair flailing catgut

of banjo—even flute as snake conjurer, keyboard

or ukulele notes can only mimic, not entice …

Yet, after dark, the crickets’ mezzo solo surrounds

the illuminated sphere—scree, star shower.

IV.

You have to get in close here,

for the sound of cows munching

tough meadow grass to be audible.

I’m trying to re-create the granite silence

of a Beara boreen where, despite the baffle

of fuchsia hedge, blackberry briar, that

rhythmic bass line—a herd of dairy cows

chewing their cud—would accompany

the crunch of gravel, hidden stream music

underlining the native stillness.

V.

The first real dose of quiet in these

Blue Ridge foothills, where traffic and talk

can drown out history: plantation remnants

out over the dammed lake. Here,

a dying ash tree’s the omphalos, hiving

flies to a slave graveyard. The new plaque

calls them “founders,” to what is now a pricey

private college. Indeed, their sweat

laid stones, planted corn and tobacco,

ground flour, tended cows and mowed

the meadows to feed livestock. And the cost—

I kick aside the first piles of autumn

leaves to uncover the granite stubs of old

grave markers, huddled as if against rain,

remembrance. What names shall we give

them, what incense burn in honor, expiation?

I join the remnant congregation: tiger

swallowtail, catbird, foraging squirrel,

and whisper a belated Kaddish. I pour

a few drops of water, watch libation

glisten on this insufficient memorial.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.