Sam Hamill: After Morning Rain
It is September, the end of summer.
My backyard maples turning orange
and red and gold.
Peter Schireson: Woof
I take Buster out for his walk, above us, wild geese fly south, honking, going nowhere, geese without edges, no longer geese. Where did they go? asked Baso. “Away,” Hyakujo … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Nightingales of Kifissia
An evening in Kifissia, a taverna after the botanical garden, now more than thirty years ago, . the nightingales, hundreds, the sound of nightingales through it all. And me feeling … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: When Eagles Fly
I don’t know how we do it, how we struggle to find happiness in this brutal world. I sat a long time watching a few sailboats meander around Fidalgo … Continue reading
Juniper White: Pulse Oximetry
For Sam . Propped on pillows, eyes closed, cannula askew, the machine indifferently draws and whirs oxygen puffs, and you breathe as you can. I settle down beside, … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: In the Company of Ancient Masters
It is autumn in the autumn of my life. I sit on my deck in the evening light and watch a slow boat pass by. Tonight, a woman I … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Odysseus in Paris, 6 a.m.
I’m leaning out the window, looking up Rue Pascal, up the hill toward Mouffetard, where soon the markets will overflow with fresh produce and fish, and dozens of restaurants will … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Three Poems
Septuagenarian Sitting alone in late summer twilight sipping cold sake reading the obituaries of my friends . To Margaret, the Librarian It was a librarian who first showed me … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Remembering Kenneth Rexroth
The maple leaves are always green up here, and the waters of the Sound always blue. I have been thinking of you all day, at least since breezes pushed the … Continue reading
Ian Boyden: Study The Axe Handle
學柯 for Sam Hamill To study the axe handle is to study the forest, how trees stand, and how trees fall, and how to cause their falling, and what it … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Of Cascadia (text and video)
. Of Cascadia I came here nearly forty years ago, broke and half broken, having chosen the mud, the dirt road, alder pollen and a hundred avenues of gray across … Continue reading
Sam Hamill — To the Tune: Spring at Wu Ling
The breeze has passed, pollen dust settled, and now the evening comes as I comb out my hair. There is the book, the inkstone, the table. But he who was … Continue reading
Sam Hamill: Remembering Gwendolyn Brooks
When I was a boy on a Utah farm, I listened to Chicago blues and dreamed of the city’s big shoulders and wide arms and the roads leading up from … Continue reading
