Tuesday, September 8, 2015
ROSALIND BRACKENBURY'S BONNARD'S DOG
But among the stack of books by my bed is her BONNARD'S DOG which I've been reading a few poems out of every night or so and find myself almost always delighted with what I read. Like this one:
Maybe it's the darkness under pine branches,
the underside of a red leaf in the wind.
Maybe the white ferry
coming into harbor.
Or the sound of footsteps
in the alleyway,
at the end of the road.
It's so slight you may not notice it;
it's the rustle of bell heather,
the body of the dragonfly over the brown pool
not a flit or a dive exactly, more like
It's the impossibility of choosing.
It's being chosen.
or this one:
Once I sat in a knitted suit, rapt
at a bucket of wet sand;
there's a photo—my first beach,
and the barbed wire gone.
I wore a cotton hat.
Now, I'm back. Sea, and the space
where sand gleams, and the tide.