Mark Jarman

The hummingbird has lingered. A rhododendron blooms. But each night autumn’s chilly dreams Stalk through our bedrooms. The sky is gray and blank, Then eloquent with sun. The mood keeps shifting on the street From “Do Not Walk!” to “Run!” It’s lonely as the planet . . . . Continue Reading »

Down in the soul’s wine cellars The casks of virtue brood. They’re aging through the centuries, Like deep Alaskan crude. The casks of sin, however, Are daily tapped and flow, Filling carafes, beakers, and jugs, Giving each face a glow. It’s quite a ways below ground, The soul’s . . . . Continue Reading »

Down in the soul’s wine cellars The casks of virtue brood. They’re aging through the centuries, Like deep Alaskan crude. The casks of sin, however, Are daily tapped and flow, Filling carafes, beakers, and jugs, Giving each face a glow. It’s quite a ways below ground, The . . . . Continue Reading »

The world that welcomed the divorce Of word and thing is now outmoded. The two are one again. The world Of their new marriage has exploded. And in the aftermath we watch As brilliant particles of truth, Like stars that tell us where we are, Bring our gaze back down to earth. Words and their . . . . Continue Reading »

Dull, restless mornings, crawling with hungers— To have something to do and to have done it. Blackbirds, treading the rubbery rowan branches. Sucking down the berries like juju beads. Walkers heading for work, pointing like windsocks. The indifferent trees around them, letting their leaves . . . . Continue Reading »