I came across this fantastic journal yesterday which according to their website is 'the oldest monthly devoted to verse in the English-speaking world'. Little wonder.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine
Inside this find were some absolute treasures, among them 'In The High Country' by David St. John. There are too many wonderful and eminently thievable things in this poem, the kind of things that make you wish you had thought of them first. Sadly, I didnt, but the poem is consolation enough...
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine
Inside this find were some absolute treasures, among them 'In The High Country' by David St. John. There are too many wonderful and eminently thievable things in this poem, the kind of things that make you wish you had thought of them first. Sadly, I didnt, but the poem is consolation enough...
In The High Country
Some days I am happy to be no one
The shifting grasses
In the May winds are miraculous enough
As they ripple through the meadow of lupine
The field as iridescent as a Renaissance heaven
& do you see that boy with his arms raised
Like one of Raphael’s angels held within
This hush & this pause & the sky’s lapis expanse?
That boy is my son & I am his only father
Even when I am no one
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