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Three Poems

Three Poems L E O N A R D N A T H A N recessional He who traveled the world to find pure distance found only the next range always receding. One destination, many names-- Patagonia, Archangel where tears freeze before they fall. Even the next room appeared remote, the woman in it, humming, hard to reach as the nearest star. gouache Sketch of a heavy man in soft grays and black seated against the faded backdrop of an old city, Cracow perhaps. He's not waiting for color to give him life, or for the glass of darkness on the table to redden as the artist might have hoped. He leans to pluck an improvised guitar. The woman sitting beside him opens her mouth as if to sing, as if to sing the silence. da ug h ter s of mu sic Daughters of music, brought low these days, sing on though the wheel is broken, the almond tree blighted in blighted fields. We scarcely catch their drift, sisters of wind, voices of smoke lamenting the broken pitcher left at the dry well. Too late now to comfort us, they carol into the night, lovely, meaningless songs, obsolete as http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

Three Poems

Manoa , Volume 14 (1) – Apr 1, 2002

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Publisher
University of Hawai'I Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2002 University of Hawai'i Press.
ISSN
1527-943x
Publisher site
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Abstract

L E O N A R D N A T H A N recessional He who traveled the world to find pure distance found only the next range always receding. One destination, many names-- Patagonia, Archangel where tears freeze before they fall. Even the next room appeared remote, the woman in it, humming, hard to reach as the nearest star. gouache Sketch of a heavy man in soft grays and black seated against the faded backdrop of an old city, Cracow perhaps. He's not waiting for color to give him life, or for the glass of darkness on the table to redden as the artist might have hoped. He leans to pluck an improvised guitar. The woman sitting beside him opens her mouth as if to sing, as if to sing the silence. da ug h ter s of mu sic Daughters of music, brought low these days, sing on though the wheel is broken, the almond tree blighted in blighted fields. We scarcely catch their drift, sisters of wind, voices of smoke lamenting the broken pitcher left at the dry well. Too late now to comfort us, they carol into the night, lovely, meaningless songs, obsolete as

Journal

ManoaUniversity of Hawai'I Press

Published: Apr 1, 2002

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