Meredith Devney
3 poems
**
From The Holly
after James Tate
A hostage-drawn rogue
scales the wooden hinge:
behind him two or three frontiersmen
are sharing their toddies: their hatchets
glisten like small pillars of cobalt
in their hands fueling goriness.
I'm standing in this holly, see,
and I'm going to holler out:
"Good righteousness to bad rulers!"
and "I'm sorry if I was a mercenary!"
"Howdy doody, millionaire travesty!"
"So long burdocks and gristle."
Like a harpoon
burning on an islet
only nomads know about.
**
The Grant Farm: 1908-1998
Jeff met my sister at the Catskill County Fair.
Chisel plows, disk rippers and mulch tillers aged under yellowed linens.
She gave birth to a ten pound boy named Jake.
He only remembers rust-colored steel.
The boarded up barn sat empty for twelve years.
He was caught under a 6 ton Hi-Crop Series John Deere.
My sister called yesterday to say, We bought six pigs.
They married three years later.
His family auctioned the cows and rented the fields.
The barn was renovated into a reception hall.
At fifteen he found his father bladed over and bleeding, not breathing.
Two have already died.
**
Vernharrtheit
I will die while sitting, or kissing, or searing
a fish that's gasping for winter's glass panes.
Who is wiser? We who love, or a man
who finds a bronze table under algae?
Such blunt aching. I remember watching you
freshen-up, floss, spray ginger onto your skin.
You held an aquatic glow.
Now I gaze at your apartment from my deck
kneeling down, holding the Bible;
this is my Monday burden.
Figs moan for a higher act - for cracked glass,
dry speak and rucksacks
to carry us through the labyrinth.
Oh, when will you wisen my cherie?
Beware: Photos lock in the craze.
War stones men. We must fasten,
then loosen our kin.
I am commodity's son. I will die
financing the luster of your ring. But
I'd rather go under an afghan, clutching
a radio. Music is less demanding.
Meet me where the path slickens
before I die in fragments like fish do,
one bone at a time.
**
return to sawbuck 1.4
**
Meredith Devney has an MFA from Emerson College. She was also an English instructor at Emerson and is currently an editor for Ploughshares. She has several articles published and is just starting to send out her poetry for publication.
**
From The Holly
after James Tate
A hostage-drawn rogue
scales the wooden hinge:
behind him two or three frontiersmen
are sharing their toddies: their hatchets
glisten like small pillars of cobalt
in their hands fueling goriness.
I'm standing in this holly, see,
and I'm going to holler out:
"Good righteousness to bad rulers!"
and "I'm sorry if I was a mercenary!"
"Howdy doody, millionaire travesty!"
"So long burdocks and gristle."
Like a harpoon
burning on an islet
only nomads know about.
**
The Grant Farm: 1908-1998
Jeff met my sister at the Catskill County Fair.
Chisel plows, disk rippers and mulch tillers aged under yellowed linens.
She gave birth to a ten pound boy named Jake.
He only remembers rust-colored steel.
The boarded up barn sat empty for twelve years.
He was caught under a 6 ton Hi-Crop Series John Deere.
My sister called yesterday to say, We bought six pigs.
They married three years later.
His family auctioned the cows and rented the fields.
The barn was renovated into a reception hall.
At fifteen he found his father bladed over and bleeding, not breathing.
Two have already died.
**
Vernharrtheit
I will die while sitting, or kissing, or searing
a fish that's gasping for winter's glass panes.
Who is wiser? We who love, or a man
who finds a bronze table under algae?
Such blunt aching. I remember watching you
freshen-up, floss, spray ginger onto your skin.
You held an aquatic glow.
Now I gaze at your apartment from my deck
kneeling down, holding the Bible;
this is my Monday burden.
Figs moan for a higher act - for cracked glass,
dry speak and rucksacks
to carry us through the labyrinth.
Oh, when will you wisen my cherie?
Beware: Photos lock in the craze.
War stones men. We must fasten,
then loosen our kin.
I am commodity's son. I will die
financing the luster of your ring. But
I'd rather go under an afghan, clutching
a radio. Music is less demanding.
Meet me where the path slickens
before I die in fragments like fish do,
one bone at a time.
**
return to sawbuck 1.4
**
Meredith Devney has an MFA from Emerson College. She was also an English instructor at Emerson and is currently an editor for Ploughshares. She has several articles published and is just starting to send out her poetry for publication.
