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Mar 05th
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The Poems of Lewis Turco

ae_TurcoEditor’s notes:  In this week’s Poetry Corner, we feature the work of Lewis Turco, author of “The Book of Forms.” He has two books coming out this year:  the fourth edition of “The Book of Forms,” and a book of criticism, “The Dialects of the Tribe: Post-Modern American Poets and Poetry.”

SEASONAL
Autumn swells the cribs. The moon
turns to ivory hanging
in the heavens, a vulture
with a skull’s smile.
Summer is the rife season:
Birdsong is made of green leaves.
Insects sing and become dust
again, death’s feathers.

What does the moon ask
of the summer? The sound of
the rain is darkness.

When the rain falls through
the mountain, the bottom of
summer's night turns white.

Winter speaks with the voice of
the wind. Water pulses in
veins under its icy skin.
A mouse creeps; an owl
listens. Creation wakens
in the spring, the roots go deep.
But the root taps dust, delving
in last year’s feathers.

ae_FearfulPleasures2HERONS
There are so many alewives running
up the millstream today
that the herons are standing on limbs
above the waters
rather than in the currents.

They need to rest, it would appear. They
need to have the shoals stop
battering their knees with hard noses.
Even the eagles
and the ospreys are taking
a breather. Goshawks, crows, jays, swallows,
even hummingbirds and
downies ply breezes between feeders
and the falls. A pair
of turkeys walk the lawn: Go
away, I’ll feed you corn in the fall.

SORTING
All that is behind us now,
the rime upon the window,
the floe of the river, the
creature starting at shadows,

but for how long? How long is
the shade of a pine thrown at
our feet on a sheet of snow?
We may stroll no farther, yet
we do, clear into jonquils
sorting themselves on the lawn.

MILLSTREAM
Where the brook falls into its
lower self, the water breaks
among stones, between oaks and

junipers. I wonder how
it will mend itself, but it
does, and I never notice.

FAITH
Where is it we think we’re going?
There are 72 virgins
waiting for you — and for me, all
my cats, if there is a heaven.

Comments (1)Add Comment
Editor/director, BrickHouse Books, Inc.
written by clarinda harriss, April 21, 2011
Wonderful poem by a wonderful poet. What the moon owes summer is a thought I will hold for many summers.

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It is a week of many different festivals along with a full moon, all occurring simultaneously. Thursday Chinese New Year celebrations end with the Lantern Festival (at full moon). Thursday is also the Pisces Solar festival (full moon), Purim (Jewish Festival) and Holi (Hindu New Year Festival). Sunday, March 8, Daylight Saving Time begins at 2 a.m. The festival of Purim celebrates the freedom of the Hebrew people from the cruel Haman (a magistrate) seeking to destroy them. Esther, the Queen of Persia, who was secretly Jewish, saved her people from death. The sweet cookie hamentaschen celebrates this festival. Friday, March 6, is Holi, the Hindu Spring Festival celebrated after the March full moon. Bonfires are lit the night before, warding off evil. Holi, the Festival of Colors, is the most colorful festival in the world. It is also the Festival of Love—of Radha for Krishna (the blue-colored God). It is a spring festival with singing, dancing, carnivals, food and bhang, a drink made of cannabis leaves. Holi signifies good over evil, ridding oneself of past errors, ending conflicts through rapprochement (returning to each other). It is a day of forgiveness, including debts. Holi also marks the beginning of New Year. At the Pisces Solar festival we recite the seed thought, “We leave the Father’s home and, turning back, we save.” Great Teachers remain on Earth until all of humanity is enlightened. The New Group of World Servers is called to this task and sacrifice. Sacrifice (from the heart) is the first Law of the Soul, the heart of which is Love. This sacrifice saves the world.

 

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