PF detail from Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Beach Scene, Guernsey (Children by the Sea in Guernsey) - 1883;

ISSN 
1942-2067

Copyright © 2011 Pirene's Fountain.

TX7-018-906

All Rights Reserved.

Maria Terrone is the author of two poetry collections: A Secret Room in Fall, co-winner of the McGovern Prize (Ashland Poetry Press, 2006) and The Bodies We Were Loaned (The Word Works, 2002), as well as a chapbook, American Gothic, Take 2 (Finishing Line Press, 2009).  Her work appeared  most recently in the debut issue of Amherst College’s The Common and has been published in such magazines as Poetry, Notre Dame Review, Poetry International and in over a dozen anthologies, including the fall 2011 Knopf Everyman series anthology, Killer Verse: Poems About Murder and Mayhem. In her day job, she is Assistant Vice President for Communications at Queens College, City University of New York.

INTRODUCING THE FOREST TO VIVALDI
WORDS TO UNPIN YOURSELF FROM THE WALL

 

INTRODUCING THE FOREST TO VIVALDI

Ignore the crows, their rude calls from the balcony
of trees. This concert piped through speakers
isn’t meant for them but you: dulcet chorus of vireos,
cardinals, wrens, doves, whose daily rhapsody
goes unapplauded. Allow yourselves a brief
intermission and settle into plush evergreen.
Listen to the strings and flutes, how they seem
to imitate you in their fluttering grief
and patient beseeching. But how can
we match a music of constant hunger and quick
relief, your allegro heartbeat, life a short, lit wick?
If this serenade can offer any lesson,
it will after the last note, when silence swells
your throats with its hum and seeps
into folded wings like the moment before sleep.

 

WORDS TO UNPIN YOURSELF FROM THE WALL

You want to be somewhere else, out of
the three-hour lecture, the marathon reading,
out of your pinned skin, inside
the wild commotion of small birds hidden
within a massive tree that seems to swell and vibrate.
To be inside one feathered throat pulsing and the vortex
of autumn leaves pulling the last light to itself.

Tell them you must go, then speak no more. Risk all
for the last leaf and the other-wordly calls at liftoff.
Feel the magnetic imperative of that high,
black string drawn across continents. Stay
until you can’t see sky or the up-turned face
of the stranger who’s joined you,
and it’s the wind that has the last word,
blowing sharp leaves at your lips—
such rough, red kisses.