Settlement of Snow

The Mill, 1964, Andrew Wyeth

Boots tramp your arrival.

I am aware of you. 

Wyeth stillness lies

in the bodice of my gown.

Unlace the corset with gloved hands

to find the curvature of the earth.

Fire hisses.

Impatient embers

find their way into everything we know.

The room is overwarm.

Gathered branches tumble to the floor.

There is no script, no canvas.
This is no ordinary happiness. 

tk/January 2014







Exquisite read by R.A.D. Stainforth: 

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The Absence

I grip the banister,

touch each sleepless stair―

the door's salutation

sounds sadder in the dark.

Night swallows me,

one naked shoulder at a time.

I hear your voice in the crickets―

fireflies remind me of the distance,

how each nocturnal window twinkles

from counties to countries.

How stars scatter

differently across your sky.

tk/July 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this masterful reading.  

Man and The Moon, 1990 by Andrew Wyeth 

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The End

R.A.D. Stainforth moistens dry words on the page...

I am the last

walk with you,

watch gulls hover,

cry sharp in habitual air.

Fingers in my hair,

you crown me

lover of the end ―

all previous castles

now wave-washed clean.

Already grown full,

there is nowhere else to grow,

but with you ―

legs stretch out,

like pink-colored wings,

rearrange the passage

between.

tk/November 2012

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

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Take Your Time

R.A.D. Stainforth...in living color...

There is a place,

galactic and unforeseen,

removed from space,

like a ticking clock.

Remote, synchronized

as Shostakovich,

we bludgeon in unison,

followed by only one tock.

Unrestrained measures

surge out of time,

the world suspended

in each sweet stanza.

tk/August 2012

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image: Big Room, 1948, Andrew Wyeth

utterly candid

The Revenant, 1949, Andrew Wyeth

They say not to wear white

after Labor Day

but he is not afraid to be seen

in the same clothes twice

he knows not to read

too much into everything

without social significance

yesterday's mashed potatoes

are made to be worn year round

for centuries, even

a little room to swing around in

without must and dust and age

a private sort of greatness

a place of morning sun

where there are not quite

so many egg stains

Tess Kincaid
September, 2011


Listen to the inimitable R.A.D. Stainforth's reading of this poem:
(you can visit his excellent blog, Black Dogs, here)

Andrew Newell Wyeth
(July 12, 1917 – January 16, 2009)
Rest in Peace

December

Winter, Andrew Wyeth, 1946

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost

.

I woke up to huge blowing snowflakes this first morning of

December! I adore this poem by Robert Frost. There are a lot

of interpretations as to the meaning behind it, but I just love its

basic simplicity. The last two lines are what really put the spin

on it, though.