November 2017
Poetry is a lonely business, but I have a friend who plays guitar, and when I play bass with him, I find community. My most recent book is In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013 and I've had recent poems in Hummingbird, Atticus Review, Hamilton Stone Review, and other literary magazines. I'm honored to serve as managing editor of the Lorine Niedecker Monograph Series, What Region? I blog as The Middlewesterner (www.middlewesterner.com), and have put up at least five little poems a week since mid-2008.
THESE MOMENTS
The farthest edge, beyond
the great emptiness of stars.
The innermost split speck
of dust so small not even
a name can hold its meaning.
The trees bearing up the sky,
the earth anchoring the trees.
The smallest animals and
the creatures which take them.
The flowers. Lord, the flowers.
Here we stand in these holy
moments, wanting so much
to touch the face of God.
POEM,
image on the skin of the universe,
the turned, heard words pushing hard against
dark matter. Poet, yes, harrier of sharp
sky who looks, holds, looks, holds, strikes.
Somewhere is fire and somewhere ice.
Somewhere drunken mutterings. And here
in the darkness, moon mixes with water
and everything shines. Desire and need twine.
One poem, another one, all night long,
every night, all the seasons, all the years,
as many poems as there are stars,
as many stars as there ever were.
READER'S WORK
I cannot
say what
I mean,
of course.
Meaning
is beyond
saying,
is the part
you do,
reader,
if you do
your part.
POETRY IS
Some say
music.
Some say
meaning.
I say
the plain
hard
surface
of stone.
A POEM IS
A poem is
to stone as
stone is to
itself. You
may skip it
across water,
throw it through
a window,
but don't ask
what it means.
THESE MOMENTS
The farthest edge, beyond
the great emptiness of stars.
The innermost split speck
of dust so small not even
a name can hold its meaning.
The trees bearing up the sky,
the earth anchoring the trees.
The smallest animals and
the creatures which take them.
The flowers. Lord, the flowers.
Here we stand in these holy
moments, wanting so much
to touch the face of God.
POEM,
image on the skin of the universe,
the turned, heard words pushing hard against
dark matter. Poet, yes, harrier of sharp
sky who looks, holds, looks, holds, strikes.
Somewhere is fire and somewhere ice.
Somewhere drunken mutterings. And here
in the darkness, moon mixes with water
and everything shines. Desire and need twine.
One poem, another one, all night long,
every night, all the seasons, all the years,
as many poems as there are stars,
as many stars as there ever were.
READER'S WORK
I cannot
say what
I mean,
of course.
Meaning
is beyond
saying,
is the part
you do,
reader,
if you do
your part.
POETRY IS
Some say
music.
Some say
meaning.
I say
the plain
hard
surface
of stone.
A POEM IS
A poem is
to stone as
stone is to
itself. You
may skip it
across water,
throw it through
a window,
but don't ask
what it means.
© 2017 Tom Montag
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF