When credit ran out there remained
the desolate clang of an empty milk churn
the bell of bitterness
in the emigrant’s awkward dream
of the West.
The wind sighs now to no one.
The crofts died suddenly among their lilies.
But the chimney walls still wheeze.
And the nettles are in bloom.
— Harry Martinson, “Göinge”
HOMESCHOOLING MOTHER OF 5, ALL THINGS DOMESTIC, MY CRAZY LIFE
poems, and the poet who poems them
(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction
It's always about writing...
Author of Angels & Adultery
Freelance Creative Professional
Writing about reading
Writer * Reader * Editor
The website of fiction writer Anthony Martin
The Year of Living Deeply
Corey Mesler
Just another WordPress.com site
(The poetry blog of Grant Clauser)
Just another WordPress.com site
a roominghouse for the servants of the duende
Lovely. I keep looking for short poems that “catch” me, and the ones I write keep getting longer and longer (though I think it is because I am trying to figure something out). I need to reread this or find more of his work.
So much of Martinson’s work is brief but haunting (and apt).