Waiting: Fall

Waiting: Fall

 

For Love of Red

 

Red silk wet on pine needles.

Maple and sumac glimmer red against the road

neither red as the red wool blanket

in my blue room.

 

Evensong

Coyote families sing to each other in the dusk

sun flares redden mountains

sky blue as lapis lazuli

until moonless black night uncovers stars.

 

 

 

 

Cold Blue

 

 

blue scraps of sky

crack out clouds

 

dull winter ground

rigid brown

 

soon

snow we’ve longed for

 

 

Storm

clouds bank black against less black mountains

flying snow crosses dusky sun

fractured into winter rainbow

 

Red Twig

 

Morning fog lifts its wet weight

red twig shines

in remembrance.

 

Clouds in a prism of urgency

rush to the sea

 

An insect passes

lost in last summer’s litter.

Sidereal

night draws each body

over moonless horizon

 

Jupiter rises

stars overwhelmed

orbit toward dawn

 

 

 

 

 

Fog

 

shapeless quiet slides over the roof

colors hide

in deepening dusk

rain channels bark

 

fog drips on a forest mouse

somewhere near      a song

Atlantic Flight

Atlantic Flight

 

 

 

sky snow

 

scumbled over the landscape

undulates under blue clouds

 

late sun

rose-red,

lavender-lake

 

half the spectrum broken

over the roiled  surface

 

defined by ivory-black ribbons

of frozen rivers

 

no bird dares the winter sky

 

this titanium cylinder

radiant in the stratosphere

 

flies high in the face of sense.

 

 

Deep Water

Deep Water

 

sun-stunned dark water

touches curved blue atmosphere

ultramarine horizon invisible

 

skin darkens in fevered summer air

sweat a salty sheen

black curls halo over reddening ears

legs stiff at water’s boundary

 

plunge in, drown in brilliant delight

weightless, jubilant

float besotted

 

I learn to swim

TO INHABIT THE FELT WORLD

To-Inhabit-COVER-7.5x9-webcopy

Susan Gardner writes “with no other proof but memory.”

She urges us

“take one breath,

exhale

then one more.”

Susan takes us by the throat to Toronto Island, Montserrat, the New York Library, a hospital, into seemingly veiled poems that leave haunting images for us to reinterpret, to meditate upon. These are poems for the poet-breath within us. One reading, one long breath is not enough.  Within Susan Gardner’s writing is the deep breath we take at the end of the book that says, I have heard the roar of a poet responding to the love and pain in a private, felt world.

As a fellow poet, I am revived by this gathering of penetrating tenderness.

– James McGrath, author of At the Edgelessness of Light, Dreaming invisible Voices and Speaking With Magpies

 

Susan Gardner’s spare but urgent collection of poems, To Inhabit the Felt World, is “the roar of alive”

I don’t believe I have ever read lines of such ferocity, honesty and pain. Yet Gardner continues, observes, listens, “fog drips on a forest mouse/ somewhere near a song.” grows, creates,

Hand circles inside black boundary,

water reflects from black surface

ink blackens

marbles over inkstone

 

slowly, slowly  readies itself for the brush.

And she opens herself to pasiion, “ the body of one/ raging with joy/ against the surface of the other.” “Not the thickness of a thread is between us… nothing between us but this hour.”

To Inhabit the Felt World is a remarkable collection by a remarkable poet/panter/photographer. – Elizabeth Raby, poet, author of  INK ON SNOW

 

TO INHABIT THE FELT WORLD

To-Inhabit-COVER-7.5x9-webcopy

“With… awareness and wisdom, ‘To Inhabit the Felt World’ is a fine addition to contemporary poetry collections, recommended.” Midwest Book Review, February 13, 2013

Susan Gardner’s spare but urgent collection of poems, To Inhabit the Felt World, is “the roar of alive”

I don’t believe I have ever read lines of such ferocity, honesty and pain. Yet Gardner continues, observes, listens, “fog drips on a forest mouse/ somewhere near a song.” grows, creates,

Hand circles inside black boundary,

water reflects from black surface

ink blackens

marbles over inkstone

slowly, slowly  readies itself for the brush.

And she opens herself to pasiion, “ the body of one/ raging with joy/ against the surface of the other.” “Not the thickness of a thread is between us… nothing between us but this hour.”

To Inhabit the Felt World is a remarkable collection by a remarkable poet/panter/photographer.

– Elizabeth Raby, poet, author of  INK ON SNOW