Violets in the Fall
Maurice Manning
A gang of crows was chasing off
a hawk. The little stream was laughing
and shushing itself. The hawk's reflection
briefly blurred a pool of water
and then the pool went back to waiting
for nothing or the next reflection.
The maple trees were yellow and red,
but redder farther up the stream.
I wanted especially to share
the cloud of redder leaves upstream
with the little girl I had with me,
but she was sleeping. Walking home,
I thought the willow trees around
the pond were standing up like brooms
to sweep the sky. That was the voice
in my head describing the willow trees
as brooms, a thought to stop the world
for a moment's moment. She might have thought
the willows looked like lashes winking
around a deep-green eye,
but as I say, she was asleep
for this excursion in the world.
And she hasn't told me yet about
the voice inside her head. For the moment
that voice is learning how to listen
to its own mysterious silence. I expect
it's like a sanctuary in there
with a candle glowing at the back of the room
and violets dotting the grass outside.
from the book SNAKEDOCTOR / Copper Canyon Press
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I wrote this poem about 8 years ago when our daughter was still too young to walk and I wanted her to see the woods. That she slept through it all was fitting.  Now she's often in the woods, under her own steam.

Maurice Manning on "Violets in the Fall"
Color photograph of Ahmad Farhad, his wife and his lawyers
Pakistani Poet Ahmad Farhad Abducted

"His captors made it clear that his political poetry, his activism and a recent post on social media calling for Pakistan’s powerful army chief to resign, were the reasons he had been picked up. 'They asked me many times, what’s my issue with the army chief and the military?' he said. 'The interrogator then pressed me harder, asking about my resistance poetry, particularly my two poems on the military and enforced disappearances.'"

via THE GUARDIAN
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Cover of Timothy Donnelly's book, Chariot
What Sparks Poetry:
Matthew Tuckner on Ecopoetry Now


"Donnelly’s work has always been in conversation with Keats, but it is here, through Chariot’s strictness of form, that Donnelly broaches on what Keats called the 'egotistical sublime,' the notion that there is a direct correlation between 'voice' and environment. Form molds and directs the thinking in these poems, “This Is the Assemblage” included. Yet form also becomes a stricture to push against in these poems, further articulating the question asked by Whitman that Donnelly enlists as the book’s epigraph: 'to be in any form, what is that?'"
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