{"id":2124,"date":"2020-02-24T13:00:26","date_gmt":"2020-02-24T18:00:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/?p=2124"},"modified":"2020-03-04T10:19:24","modified_gmt":"2020-03-04T15:19:24","slug":"coveysmith","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2020\/02\/24\/coveysmith\/","title":{"rendered":"A Collection of Poems: Cesspool (Spring Birds), and Hurricane"},"content":{"rendered":"
By Erin Covey-Smith<\/strong><\/p>\n I live with my husband in Freeport, Maine, where I run, garden, cook, make art, and try to be a good steward. Through the experience and sense impressions of my lived environment, I write to explore the liminal, in-between spaces of a polarized world and to wonder at the precarious balance of degeneration and resilience found therein.<\/p>\n Unmistakable birdsong, sun-warm and crisp, My ears prick and ring, senses quickening I walk out into the expansive embrace of softening We winter-weary New Englanders welcome dirt, Such light-hearted, darkly woven songs: How does sorrow of such grand scales (and a cesspool of guilt at the <\/p>\n I wanted to stop the storm; I couldn’t stop the storm. I did open the window, to better hear the crickets, which was something, at least.<\/p>\n This one, open-windowed world, pulsing You can’t fear one and rejoice in the other.<\/p>\n Or you can, you must. If you, too, are to pulse \u2013 without the other.<\/p>\n You must hold both to feel one, You must not break.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" By Erin Covey-Smith From the Author I live with my husband in Freeport, Maine, where I run, garden, cook, make art, and try to be a good steward. Through the experience and sense impressions of my lived environment, I write to explore the liminal, in-between spaces of a polarized world and to wonder at the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1650,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[16],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2124","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-spire-2020-issue"],"yoast_head":"\nFrom the Author<\/strong><\/h4>\n
\nCesspool (Spring Birds)<\/h3>\n
\nnatural awakening after unnatural rain,
\nrides the airwaves behind a news interview \u2013
\na Midwestern farmer lamenting a deluge,
\nrecord floodwaters laying fallow in his fields.<\/p>\n
\nas serenading birds flit in my yard, out the sun-
\nstrewn window, warming their blood, conjuring
\ngrowth in the seeds they peck. While again and
\nalways, the air also bears a burden: news
\nof a devastating cyclone in Zimbabwe.<\/p>\n
\nbreezes, and every cell welcomes the irrepressible
\nsmell of dirt, soil ripening in the thawing meadow.<\/p>\n
\nits promising microbial stirrings as distant
\ngeographically as chemically from cyclone-stirred
\nplague-ridden, family-rifting mud.<\/p>\n
\nthose Midwestern birds borne over airwaves
\ndissipate in my mind, while those sharing
\nthe sweet air I breathe trill here, here, here.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nslip so easily from the mind, like so much
\nreceding flood water? Only, instead of leaving
\ndestruction in its wake, it leaves birdsong,
\nheart-leaping wonder at wakening life<\/p>\n
\nsloping edge of consciousness.)<\/p>\n
\n<\/h3>\n
Hurricane<\/h3>\n
\nIt was bigger than me, and far away.<\/p>\n
\nto feel the humid, stirred air,<\/p>\n
\nwith distant storm, with serenaded sky
\nintimately glimpsed in the backyard:<\/p>\n
\nand you do, we do, diaphanous-skinned beings that we are \u2013
\none can’t course through you<\/p>\n
\nYou must feel both, and somehow \u2013
\nhere is the trick of it \u2013<\/p>\n<\/h5>\n