Irene
Brooks Robards

Irene

No turbines in the Sound yet

wind makes its presence

felt the old-fashioned way

my old Vic of a house

rocks and sways with gusts

blowouts of freed-up energy

Plants take up residence in

the safety of inside next to

hammock, porch chairs and grill

tables fend for themselves

bushes and shrubs wear Wilt-Proof

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The Poetry of Paying Attention
Kate Feiffer

During the last presidential campaign, the poet Naomi Shihab Nye had the daunting task of introducing Caroline Kennedy at an Obama campaign event in San Antonio, Texas. The honor was made particularly formidable because Ms. Kennedy’s plane had been significantly delayed.

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And the Ocean, Always the Ocean

Stand here and there, old Vineyard homes,

All wrapped in deep content.

— Emma Mayhew Whiting

They’re painting all the houses white in Edgartown,

capping flat pickets to fences around resplendent lawns,

cut on a diagonal. The parade is just around the corner.

Sit at the spinning wheel in the keeping room, scrimshaw

on the mantel. The crane swings in the high fireplace

and the streets are filled with shouts for

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Joe Cressy

Joe Cressy

Salty and scholarly

Haltingly clear

What Joe Cressy spoke

You wanted to hear

Scottish and kilted

Malt in his hand

Reciting keenly

So Scots understand

Heeling on Halcyon

Bound for the sky

Cresting and leaning

A tear in his eye

Mary and daughters

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Jane’s Beautiful Soul

Jane’s Beautiful Soul

to experience the Vineyard’s magical majesty

to see the idiosyncracies of each backyard tree

to look at our Island’s night sky as always new

to talk to her dog, Mac, as though to me and you

in one of Jane’s poems entitled My Trees

she hears “screeching sound of saws on trees”

so roads can be made and houses built

in forest where she and a boy once walked

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Artemis’s Caution

Artemis’s Caution

When you look at a deer

what do you see?

Carrier of ticks? Raider of you garden? Meat for your freezer?

Pest, scourge, rodent with antlers?

When you contemplate a deer,

the only large animal left to roam wild

in our woods, a brilliantly fired creature who bolts off

with lifted white tail, speed like a gazelle, consider

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Dandelion Gone to Seed

Dandelion Gone to Seed

A sphere of silvery transparency,

at the top of a silvery stem.

Perfect in its static death.

But the next wind will blow it into seedlings,

will sing every tiny seed of it into a cloud

that drifts to earth,

to make another flower,

in another spring.

— Margaret Freydberg

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Poem: Sun Stand
Steve Ewing

I build stone circles

To watch

The sweep

Of year

The fan of rises

The arc

Of settings

The stretch

Of day

The first of May

To midsummers

Warming march

Towards the bountiful

Balance

Of fall’s

Fading light

The crunching

Crispness

Of the winter

Solstice sun

Sliding down

Perfectly

Across the

Frozen field

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Poem (Song): Summer
Dan Waters
(song lyrics)

Every year has only one July.

Careful! It may find a way to pass you by.

Flies come through the door;

Come November, watch it pour.

Summer, don’t you love me any more?

Looking for a wishbone on your plate,

Hoping for the kind of fish that likes your bait;

Working till you’re sore,

Scared of spending winter poor.

Summer, don’t you love me any more?

(Refrain:)

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Poem: Roots Of Old Trees
Justen Ahren

I found the tendrils of your fingers

wound around mine like prayers

woven into the clothing of prayer.

and fled with you in my arms

along the highway of snakes,

concealing you from streetlights

and stars, from dogs barking in alleys.

Because nothing should speak of this

because no one would believe me—

they’d shut me away

in a room without views—

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