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“Edge of Things"
I wait at the twilit edge of things,
A dry spell spilling over into drought,
The slippages of shadow silting in,
The interchange of dusk to duskier,
The half-dark turning half-again as dark.
There: night enough to call it a good night.
I wait for the resurrection, but wake to morning:
Mist lifting off the river.
Ladders in the orchard trees although the picking's done.”
― Trace: Poems
I wait at the twilit edge of things,
A dry spell spilling over into drought,
The slippages of shadow silting in,
The interchange of dusk to duskier,
The half-dark turning half-again as dark.
There: night enough to call it a good night.
I wait for the resurrection, but wake to morning:
Mist lifting off the river.
Ladders in the orchard trees although the picking's done.”
― Trace: Poems
“When I say poetry changed the way I see the world I mean it taught me to be attentive, to be curious, to be empathic, to understand both the power and danger of language itself."
—Eric Pankey on "What Poetry Changes”
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—Eric Pankey on "What Poetry Changes”
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“At the threshold of the divine, how to know
But indirectly, to hear the static as
Pattern, to hear the rough-edged white noise as song—
Wait, not as song—but to intuit the songbird,
Within the thorn thicket, safe, hidden there.
Every moment is not a time for song or singing.
— Eric Pankey, from “Ash,” Crow-Work (Milkweed Editions, 2015)”
―
But indirectly, to hear the static as
Pattern, to hear the rough-edged white noise as song—
Wait, not as song—but to intuit the songbird,
Within the thorn thicket, safe, hidden there.
Every moment is not a time for song or singing.
— Eric Pankey, from “Ash,” Crow-Work (Milkweed Editions, 2015)”
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