"windbreak" poems - Hello Poetry

1. Sunlight There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket and the sun stood like a griddle cooling against the wall of each long afternoon. So, her hands scuffled over the bakeboard, the reddening stove sent its plaque of heat against her where she stood in a floury apron by the window. Now she dusts the board with a goose's wing, now sits, broad-lapped, with whitened nails and measling shins: here is a space again, the scone rising to the tick of two clocks. And here is love like a tinsmith's scoop sunk past its gleam in the meal-bin. 2. The Seed Cutters They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel, You'll know them if I can get them true. They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through. They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates Buried under that straw. With time to **** They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes Lazily halving each root that falls apart In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam, And, at the centre, a dark watermark. Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom Yellowing over them, compose the frieze With all of us there, our anonymities.

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4.9k

Seamus Heaney

Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication

1. Sunlight There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket and the sun stood like a griddle cooling against the wall of each long afternoon. So, her hands scuffled over the bakeboard, the reddening stove sent its plaque of heat against her where she stood in a floury apron by the window. Now she dusts the board with a goose's wing, now sits, broad-lapped, with whitened nails and measling shins: here is a space again, the scone rising to the tick of two clocks. And here is love like a tinsmith's scoop sunk past its gleam in the meal-bin. 2. The Seed Cutters They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel, You'll know them if I can get them true. They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through. They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates Buried under that straw. With time to **** They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes Lazily halving each root that falls apart In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam, And, at the centre, a dark watermark. Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom Yellowing over them, compose the frieze With all of us there, our anonymities.

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Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly, Hovering above the clovered knoll, Swaying like wheat in speckled sun. Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream, The bleating goats exchange existential crises, Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset. Behind me, In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts, Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak Rekindle and animate in the orange beams. I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter. A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain. Somebody loves me.

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May 4, 2010

May 4, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC

grace-gwendolyn-henry

Sitting at a Picnic Table at Stolzfus Farm in Scranton, Pennsylvania

Glistening through shafts of sunlight, I spy the silvery dragonfly, Hovering above the clovered knoll, Swaying like wheat in speckled sun. Cantering up grassy hills, away from the stream, The bleating goats exchange existential crises, Brushing past the whispering tulips ablaze in the sunset. Behind me, In the shade of oaks, in spiraling dusts, Decaying logs half buried in the windbreak Rekindle and animate in the orange beams. I stand up and sip my beer, as the stars blink and stutter. A snowy owl whooshes past, wishing for rain. Somebody loves me.

13

You see sod busted up by a long, sepia-toned farmer. He is pushing a plow that belongs in a museum of the prairie. You feel as if this is happening to you. To your insides, I mean. You feel a squirming pancreas, and a dancing spleen. You feel a change coming and you are happy about feeling, about movement, agriculture. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window and realize that you have grown to be 10 feet tall. You are looking down on the corn; at eye-level with the barn. You imagine your father, the farmer, would be very proud of the tree you have become, and the windbreak you afford his fields.

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Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC

holly-salvatore

Shelterbelt

You see sod busted up by a long, sepia-toned farmer. He is pushing a plow that belongs in a museum of the prairie. You feel as if this is happening to you. To your insides, I mean. You feel a squirming pancreas, and a dancing spleen. You feel a change coming and you are happy about feeling, about movement, agriculture. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window and realize that you have grown to be 10 feet tall. You are looking down on the corn; at eye-level with the barn. You imagine your father, the farmer, would be very proud of the tree you have become, and the windbreak you afford his fields.

1

knitted on a dodgy bobble hat or a favourite chunky jumper from scandanavia, or yorkshire untasteful but definitely practical.. smelly and friendly like a wet dog pliable like warm playdoh... patulioi oil will always remind me of you... 'a hippy place in my heart...' like a beachnut, no, a beach hut shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society, flip flop corner... 19:10 some random hermit crab making his escape from the dripping bundle of just found fishing net down through the crack in the floor... into the sand and back to the sea. the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses. suncracked and faded pieces of 70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner between the scraps of rope and the deflated inflatables and the bottlecap damian hurst next to sea purse corner, biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks who escaped from the pacific gyre... panning around, the smartphone registers, the garish tatty windbreak and the 90's ghettoblaster which still has some juice left from those batteries we bought at the gift shop... last year... for our imaginary beach hut.... in the outer hebrides...? you take the camping gaz from the cupboard and put the kettle on... the beach is desert island white the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard the wind tugging relentless through our hair. but the pub is warm and friendly where grizzled fishermen philosophise hardily. by the fire. between warming shots of smokey single malt.

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Jul 6, 2015

Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC

stuart-harris

all right love

knitted on a dodgy bobble hat or a favourite chunky jumper from scandanavia, or yorkshire untasteful but definitely practical.. smelly and friendly like a wet dog pliable like warm playdoh... patulioi oil will always remind me of you... 'a hippy place in my heart...' like a beachnut, no, a beach hut shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society, flip flop corner... 19:10 some random hermit crab making his escape from the dripping bundle of just found fishing net down through the crack in the floor... into the sand and back to the sea. the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses. suncracked and faded pieces of 70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner between the scraps of rope and the deflated inflatables and the bottlecap damian hurst next to sea purse corner, biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks who escaped from the pacific gyre... panning around, the smartphone registers, the garish tatty windbreak and the 90's ghettoblaster which still has some juice left from those batteries we bought at the gift shop... last year... for our imaginary beach hut.... in the outer hebrides...? you take the camping gaz from the cupboard and put the kettle on... the beach is desert island white the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard the wind tugging relentless through our hair. but the pub is warm and friendly where grizzled fishermen philosophise hardily. by the fire. between warming shots of smokey single malt.

47

Come with me. Here’s the secret trail. At the edge of the potato field, crouch through the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone foundation of an old homestead. Enter the maple forest, the green oven. Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure. Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch). Release rivulets of sweat. This is nothing, the foothill. Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush, the small canyon of Catamount Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself. Splash me. Cup water in hands to pour over the face. Let water dribble inside the shirt, drip to the shorts. Relish the shock of cold against hot parts. Work uphill now, at last out of the trees into the land of wild blueberry. Pluck, taste tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue, so intense, so different from store-bought. Gorge, let fingers and tongue turn garish. Fill pockets. Climb with me now among rocky outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel, a crevice where from below you push my bottom, then from above I pull your hand. Emerge to a view of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come. This is the false top. Catch your breath, embrace the vista, then join me in a scramble up bare granite, farther than you’d think, no trail marked on the endless stone but simply navigate toward the opposite of gravity, upward, to at last a bald dome chilled by blasts of breeze. At the top, sit with me, our backs against the windbreak of a boulder. Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble, share — above the rivers, above the lakes, above the hawks, among the blue chain of peaks beyond your outstretched tired feet. Appreciate your muscles in exhaustion and exhilaration. We have made love to this mountain. Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of alpine grass in the fading warmth of a lowering sun. Rest. After this, the return is so easy.

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Jul 22, 2017

Jul 22, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC

joe-cottonwood

Catamount, Late Summer

Come with me. Here’s the secret trail. At the edge of the potato field, crouch through the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone foundation of an old homestead. Enter the maple forest, the green oven. Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure. Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch). Release rivulets of sweat. This is nothing, the foothill. Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush, the small canyon of Catamount Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself. Splash me. Cup water in hands to pour over the face. Let water dribble inside the shirt, drip to the shorts. Relish the shock of cold against hot parts. Work uphill now, at last out of the trees into the land of wild blueberry. Pluck, taste tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue, so intense, so different from store-bought. Gorge, let fingers and tongue turn garish. Fill pockets. Climb with me now among rocky outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel, a crevice where from below you push my bottom, then from above I pull your hand. Emerge to a view of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come. This is the false top. Catch your breath, embrace the vista, then join me in a scramble up bare granite, farther than you’d think, no trail marked on the endless stone but simply navigate toward the opposite of gravity, upward, to at last a bald dome chilled by blasts of breeze. At the top, sit with me, our backs against the windbreak of a boulder. Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble, share — above the rivers, above the lakes, above the hawks, among the blue chain of peaks beyond your outstretched tired feet. Appreciate your muscles in exhaustion and exhilaration. We have made love to this mountain. Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of alpine grass in the fading warmth of a lowering sun. Rest. After this, the return is so easy.

55

Dawn’s mist fogs street silent alongside young maple tree Shopping for approaching fall colors stationary marketing facsimile Tweed gold filigree in earth tones weaves laced crimson colored leaf Semi-gloss polish proud in pattern seeks fashionable scene beneath Veins of green leave summer, soon fade into myriads of tan Brilliant boutique on city’s square leaves leaves numerous lone artisan Last fling superb sure splendor, season’s seasoned leaves aflame Attract eyes of passer’s by, Autumn in her glory to exclaim Just a few more weeks of wonder until wind wings windbreak the spell Of encaptured captured fall season until Autumn’s lustrous leaves fell

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May 3, 2018

May 3, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC

ImeldaDickinson

AUTUMN’S DRESS

Dawn’s mist fogs street silent alongside young maple tree Shopping for approaching fall colors stationary marketing facsimile Tweed gold filigree in earth tones weaves laced crimson colored leaf Semi-gloss polish proud in pattern seeks fashionable scene beneath Veins of green leave summer, soon fade into myriads of tan Brilliant boutique on city’s square leaves leaves numerous lone artisan Last fling superb sure splendor, season’s seasoned leaves aflame Attract eyes of passer’s by, Autumn in her glory to exclaim Just a few more weeks of wonder until wind wings windbreak the spell Of encaptured captured fall season until Autumn’s lustrous leaves fell

10

On the shoulder of I-84’s overpass as eastbound enters Portland, an almond tree lets down its fruit. Her petals, pink the same as preschoolers color the sky and white as the paper beneath the wax, tremble in the violence of Internationals and Peterbilts, the same violence that grabs fistfuls of my sweater in intervals. Jack under, jack up, lug nuts off after a fight and this freeway tumbles in a storm of those flowers cast off in April-sun, I am down a layer and sweaty. Steel wire arcs where sidewall was and rubber gralloch marks its death, those eight seconds of braking behind, those eleven tree species lined as a windbreak. I am lucky to have stopped beneath this almond. It is the only tree in bloom along this stretch. Its softness has lessened the day. Her olfactory embrace deadens that of axle grease and sunrot. I am not afraid of those trucks passing a wrench-span away. This is enough, for now.

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Apr 6, 2020

Apr 6, 2020 at 1:38 AM UTC

camden_m_jones

Fixing a Blown Tire on I-84E

On the shoulder of I-84’s overpass as eastbound enters Portland, an almond tree lets down its fruit. Her petals, pink the same as preschoolers color the sky and white as the paper beneath the wax, tremble in the violence of Internationals and Peterbilts, the same violence that grabs fistfuls of my sweater in intervals. Jack under, jack up, lug nuts off after a fight and this freeway tumbles in a storm of those flowers cast off in April-sun, I am down a layer and sweaty. Steel wire arcs where sidewall was and rubber gralloch marks its death, those eight seconds of braking behind, those eleven tree species lined as a windbreak. I am lucky to have stopped beneath this almond. It is the only tree in bloom along this stretch. Its softness has lessened the day. Her olfactory embrace deadens that of axle grease and sunrot. I am not afraid of those trucks passing a wrench-span away. This is enough, for now.

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