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Tag: song

I Sing the Poem “Nantucket”

Poetry by Michael Carrino

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

William Carlos williams

I sing the poem “Nantucket” to myself as if in a waking sleep
and the children far out on the slight hillside sing along

Through the high windows of my classroom I can see them
rush in circles free and content as some might ever be

One night soon it will snow    blanket the brown grass deep
become true winter and they will cherish it

My students are reading silently about anything they are willing
to read   turtle   bird   wagon   doll

rock   bell   shard of glass   pocket watch found in the attic
how long birchwood will keep you warm

Now I see her   the teacher   the one who guides her children
outside every morning   The teacher

I want to speak with about anything   breathe the wood smoke
on her wool coat   her long curling hair

In a moment I will   beyond any fevered dream   delight
my students with a startling recess

They will all imagine me gone sweetly crazy


Michael Carrino is a retired English lecturer at SUNY Plattsburgh, New York, where he was co-editor and poetry editor of the Saranac Review. His publications include ten books of poetry, the most recent Natural Light (Kelsay Books), and The Scent of Some Lost Pleasure (Conestoga Zen 3 Anthology).

One Long Song

Poetry by Laura DeHart Young

It played in the key of reed –
clarinet, oboe, and sax –
notes raspy but clear.
They rose into an instrumental aria
unsung and unfinished –
yet the breathy chords
still hit, pure and insistent,
an orchestral surge cresting
on a wind that blew from the north.

Restless lake water,
chopping and spilling onto sandy rock –
that’s where the
final trailing notes were bound
at the end of a long autumn song.

Flung across the newly chilled shores
like skipping stones,
the equinoctial tune landed in my lap.
I caught it and put it in your mouth.
You hummed,
holding my arms around your waist.
A pileated kept time on a nearby tree –
tapping a backbeat on the offbeat.
Leaves scattered
in tune with autumn’s exhale,
color long gone – brittle in death.
They rustled and twisted with percussion,
merengue style,
floating and dipping in kinetic flurries.

One by one the notes blew into us.
We plucked them out of the air
with our fingertips,
swallowing them whole –
swaying and rocking
until I rolled you in that bed
of musical leaf debris
between boat docks
stacked and stowed.
You stopped humming.
I stopped listening,
the autumn timbre fading
into winter’s cymballistic brass.


Laura DeHart Young graduated with a degree in English and enjoys a career in the communications field. She is currently pursuing poetry writing. Laura is the author of seven novels published by Bella Books Inc. She has also written book reviews for Lambda Book Review in Washington, D.C.

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