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Polly Brown
Family Wealth

               When lightning struck the barn
that had been his father’s pride—when the cows
       and all but two work horses perished—

               most of the family capital went up
in smoke. And when fire spread to the house
       where his grandmother raised him,

with its fine dark furnishings, white porch,
               all the shining gifts sent for the wedding
       lost and gone—the polish and ease

               that had made him a leading man
vanished. Facing such loss—with no insurance
       then—he might have gone to work in town,

               let his land grow up to weeds. ‘No,’
she said, ‘Here.’ So he brought his bride
       home to the hired man’s house downhill,

       and they started over. That’s where she fed
donuts to chickadees come to her palm.
               That’s where they stood with my father

       in his new uniform, for a family portrait
               before he went to war. Where Grandpa
       knelt before each meal, to give thanks.

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
On the Farm in Harbourton
 

Through the midline of the pasture, the stream
plunged, trickle and rush, over stone and rock,
up to thick wads of bank, grasses lying over
their wiry strands, as if waiting for the horses
to bring their muzzles and drink, as if here
were a fountain with its mark on the human
earth we strode over with intent and progress.

In our minds, the stream was going somewhere,
had come from somewhere, was feeding our livestock.
We wanted to put our lips there to feel the water’s caress.
Instead, we cupped our hands, made a container
to drink, removed ourselves, at least in our thought,
from the animals so that we could have dominion,
we could wrap our thoughts in rationalization,
nationalize our landmass, claim our water rights.

While the horses grazed in the upper pasture, pushing
the limits of its borders, we stayed far below, pushing
our lawn mowers, haltering the mares for studs,
coaxing colts to round us on lunge lines,
with our clicks and clucks and darts of words flung
the length of the rope. No wonder the horses bolted
for the top of the pasture when we set them free. No
wonder when we came upon the brook while walking
up to fetch them, we paused at the tap of the water’s
fine lap, its echo eddying into our ear canal, as if blood
could flow like an eternal stream.
                                                               If God could have stopped us,
he would have done it there. He would have had us bathe in the stream,
had it wash us like babes. We would have never known sin,
the way the earth does not know the reason for sin
and how to rectify it. And so it called to me one morning
with bells in a cumulous sky. I heard them swinging
in their drift, could clearly hear the flow over pebble and stone.

Sandhya Krishnakumar
Impressions, National Gallery

At ten in the morning,
under cloudy London skies,
the queue for the free visit
is long. A guard in blue
walks past, calling aloud,
‘Raphael? Raphael?’
to ensure that nobody
is in the wrong queue;
there is a separate entrance
for the special exhibition
of paintings by Raphael.

Behind us, a man says to his son,
‘Il cherche un petit garçon
qui s’appelle Raphaël.’
‘He is looking for a little boy
called Raphael.’ I turn and catch
a glimpse of the young boy;
he looks worried, he really hopes
little Raphael would be found soon.

Later, inside the museum,
standing before the recently renamed
Ukrainian Dancers by Degas,
a lady says to her companion,
‘They must sell this painting
to collect money for Ukraine.’
For a brief moment, images of war
overshadow the paintings around us.
In another room, a father hurries away
with his young son as he yells,
‘Elles ne sont pas belles du tout!’
‘They are not beautiful at all!’

In a large, ornate hall with dark
red walls, lunettes with golden
motifs and names of artists,
a group of little children
in green and white uniforms
sit on the floor as a teacher
asks questions about the painting
in front of them—The Finding of Moses.

‘Who is the baby?’ ‘Jesus!’,
yell some with raised hands.
All have notebooks and pencils
to draw what they see.
Eventually, some children
gather to discuss their art.
A little girl of seven or eight says,
‘This looks more realistic.’

As I look back, the paintings
I saw now seem hazy,
their contents blurred,
their colours dulled,
while the patrons’ comments endure.

Eoin Rogers
The A-Bridge

Walk at night and you’ll find it
by ear, the seashell echo
of distant running engines.
It arcs above the motorway,
leads from one dark walkway

to another, is pedestrian,
not designed for major transit
or migration, and yet
is known as lure to suicides,
attracted to its fatal height

and four unceasing lanes
that, excepting violent collisions,
will not stop for anyone.
Passing traffic reverberates
within the preventative metal

frame that forms a hollow tube
around the bridge, a cage of sorts
through which, on clearing nights,
the stars might peep
to match the winking city,

the Doppler rush of a loaded truck
ringing the cabled pylons
to their apex, as if they were attuned
to the frequency of suffering and beauty,
the note of passing things.