By Amorak Huey:
THE POND IN THE CORNER OF THE YARD
It seems so important that I get this right—
memory choked with algae,
memory dried to nothing in the summer,
memory’s post-dawn sky already fevered with desire,
memory’s grass grabbing wet at my hungry ankles.
I remain the same lonely child I was,
never having learned the rules of prayer. Instead I offer
this uncurling body, this frog-song,
the word green
the word green
the word green.
THE CORN IN THE VALLEY
A sea of silk, a sky of stalk, a sun of ear and song.
There is a season for planting,
a season for harvest,
a moon-color for the storms between.
The lightning has something to do with nourishment,
something to do with need.
THE DOGWOOD AT THE CORNER OF THE PORCH
By our presence we alter the shape of the tree,
crook its looping limbs to suit our prayers,
our psalms and songs,
our cautionary tales.
It’s not the tree asking forgiveness
for its part in our most thoughtless acts—
our blossom-burst and leaf-turn,
our self-inflicted separations.
“The Pond in the Corner of the Yard” originally appeared in Thrush. Today’s poems appear here today with permission from the poet.
Amorak Huey is author of the chapbook The Insomniac Circus (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2014) and the forthcoming poetry collection Ha Ha Ha Thump (Sundress Publications, 2015). A former newspaper editor and reporter, he teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His poems appear in The Best American Poetry 2012, The Cincinnati Review, The Southern Review, The Collagist, Menacing Hedge, and many other print and online journals. Follow him on Twitter: @amorak.
Editor’s Note: I have had the pleasure of featuring Amorak Huey here on the Saturday Poetry Series before, and I am as struck by his poetry today as I was when I encountered it all those years ago. Is it the way he infuses the everyday with a touch of magic? Is it the fine line he conjures between nature and spirit and prayer? Perhaps it is the world he harvests, words sprouting from the earth as if from seeds, the quiet calm of the farm balanced by the weight of repetition, alliteration, form. It is as if you could part the corn stalks and encounter the poem. As if the poem could be turned over like earth, fertile ground for all the words that have yet to be planted.
Want more from Amorak Huey?
“Self-Portrait Following a Trail of Reese’s Pieces” in Radar
“When They Serialize My Life They’re Going to Have a Problem with 1993” in disquieting muses quarterly
“The Fathers at the Little League Field” in Hobart
“Melon Heads” in Stirring from Sundress Publications