Worlds, continents, innocent of Mercator. All coastline. Isthmuses, fjords. Archipelagoes spanning hemispheres. Cozy seas; improbable spatter of lakes. Deserts relegated to the picturesque blank center. No axial tilt; endlessly cool forests. Peninsulas. And always north, two-thirds of the way north (always the east coast) – home. Perhaps for a moment I chopped wood, gardened a lifetime, somehow finding time to be. (At least a generator; sometimes robots.) Then a meandering road south to town. Windowboxes, the people gentle, subtle and unboring. (How could they be made like that?) And I stayed with them, crosshatching streets, till re-expelled by what I was ignoring. by Frederick Pollack |
13.5.06
Doodling
Ionarts is happy to continue bringing more original poetry, kindly contributed by Frederick Pollack, author of The Adventure and Happiness, both book-length narrative poems, and whose shorter works have appeared in literary magazines such as The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Orbis UK, and the Munich-based Die Gazette. This is his second poem on ionarts, following Parents of the Just Man, published in March.
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