Vox Populi
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Alison Hurwitz: Submerged
The book door opens and he is sucked into a fluid wheel.
Once within it there is only wind and ride and journey, turning
pages, a spill of filigreed calligraphy, rhythmic symbols on repeat
while a grackle in the manuscript illuminates the word Again,
then arranges acorns, eating kernels on a tree-lined road
that’s traced in shadow, a chronicle with crenellated edge, the sense
of water’s rush and ebb, its passage. If I dip my hand I’ll sense
the story run across his skin, his mind a moving wheel
that cannot stop its circling, bearing down the road
with grackle wings, a story leafing past each turning
point as he adjusts, finds a horse to ride his own attention. Again
the arc of narrative braids strands of his awareness to repeat
that soft-serrated sound of rifled pages, repeat
and let the consonants converge and ruffle into wings, sense
imagination flexing as the characters rise and riddle, rest, again
assemble. They speak; he bends his body close, each word a wheel
that brings him nearer to conclusion with its turning.
In the rising action, he becomes the solitary figure on a road
upon which loaded metaphors cart their synchrony, a road
which twists in varied revolutions, a convolution on repeat,
a man who rides his horse at gallop through each turning.
I could call forever from the edge of story: he would sense
nothing but the pounding of his heart. If words could wheal
his skin, he’d be marked by their foreshadowing, would again
return to where the grackle lifts, launching its racked cry again
into the air. A bird of prey, a spill of feathered ink along the road
which veins its red clay lines. The larger bird retreats to wheel
and orbit, while the rider pauses, shades his eyes. He could repeat
the litany of wind, the jostle of the saddle, the sorrow he can sense
awake or sleeping. He, the journeyman adventurer who, turning,
sees his story spread and billowing behind him, a hero turning
into darkness or perhaps the carmine ink of injured bird again
returning to his wrist, a bit of inner twist inside its beak. I sense
the syncopation of his breath as he realizes that this road
is leading him in circles. Now he must dismount, must repeat
the journey on his feet, must cross the ruts left by a vanished wheel,
walk backwards with his grackle on the road. He must lead his horse, repeat
the revolution of the journey as a wheel before he can fit a key into its turning,
take in the final word, hear his mother call again, return from symbol into sense.
~~~~
Copyright 2026 Alison Hurwitz
Alison Hurwitz (she/her), is a former cellist and dancer who finds music in language.
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Absolutely adore this magical poem!
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Me too, Judith!
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Thank you so very much!!
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I admire anyone who can write a sestina — I’ve tried and given up. This is richly written and a perfect form for the subject matter.
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Karen,
Thank you so much for taking the time to send a personal comment. I’ve tried to write a sestina many times in the past. This one took possession of me and, to some extent, wrote itself onto the page.
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I don’t have to add anything to Barbara’s comment, but do so anyway 🙂 I started with the Grimm Brother’s collected fairy tales, then discovered the world through my brother’s adventure books, also moved on to Heinlein, discovered exquisite writing with Bradbury, I travelled to Mars and back again, graduated to a very eclectic reading list indeed, hungry for more, and more, and more… Now I have discovered Ggeorgiu Gospodinov, and every so often I dive into a really good whodunnit. Oh, books.
This beautiful, beautiful poem, winding its way through symbols and adventures of the mind, reminds me of the rich pickings I feel privileged to enjoy.
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Rosemary,
I loved hearing about your reader’s journey. I never stop wanting to fall into story. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment on my poem!
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I am just reading it again. xo
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I love everything about this poem: its tumbling energy and complex joy. After all,There is no Frigate like a BookTo take us Lands away
!
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Thank you so much for taking the time to read and respond to my poem. Emily Dickinson was my first poet love!
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‘tumbling energy and complex joy” … a wonderful descriptive phrase, Richard.
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I started feeling I was dancing in this poem, a whirling dervish. In my youth I consumed books, read Gone with the Wind with a flashlight under the covers. All the young Heinlein books, Tunnel in the Sky stands out, then Bradbury, graduated to big Russian tomes I have mostly forgotten—not the way I felt, but the plots. Continued until the stroke that made it hard to keep track of characters. Now reading slower, but reread the Hobbit and am slowly getting back. Currently reading an obscure book about the strange goings on in the Arroyo Seco near JPL in Altadena having already written about it in my unpublished memoir from my memories as a child. I love how this poem sent me off ( as many Michael provides do) I read slower now, but then I walk slower and my brain finds words slower than it did. But I am glad I am still here to walk Tashi, savor the sunsets, travel to other places and through other minds and read Vox Populi every day after morning meditation. Thank you.
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Thank you so much for sharing your own reading journey, and for allowing my poem to time travel with you.
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Thanks, Barb. I look forward to your comments every morning.
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I look forward to Barbara’s comments too. They are always interesting, and frequently prose poems in themselves.
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I agree! Barbara is a wonderful presence on these pages.
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There’s a wonderful medieval quality to this poem/ story. I feel as if I’m traveling through a newly written “Book of Kells,” a secular fantasy version alive with certain magic. The language has a life of its own within these incantatory lines. I’m up for this these opening days of the infant season upon us. Perfect!
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Sean, I very much appreciate this comment, because I was actually trying to communicate the act of reading as a form of incantation. The love of reading illuminates the manuscript just as much as the manuscript illuminates the reader. Thank you so much.
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Yes, perfect!
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Very perceptive poem. I guess, we each may take something different from the same poem: for me this ride reminds me of how enthralling a story, a novel, could be for me in my younger years, now, as actual life experiences have revealed and untarnished the truth, not so much. As a kid, my parents always took me to the town library on Saturday during summer when school was out and let me check out whatever enticed me. We were poor folk, couldn’t afford to buy things like books. God bless’em!
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My greatest joy was diving into a tall stack of library books as a child! The rule was that I could check out the number of books that I could carry, and I started bringing a backpack so that I could check out even more. Thank you so much for sharing your experience!
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Smart girl!
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