Gibbons Ruark Poems

We have come again, my father and I,
To the edge of the known land, to the streak
Of sand that lips the undermining sea.
...

The land there rolls no more than the quiet river
Curves. Drifts of pine straw resin the ground.
Summer is remembered like a wild fever
...

Daybreak of your voice across the ocean
Swept through me like a fresh wind over water
And left my longing palpable and keen.
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This first-name-only business beggars history,
As if the young mistook Ben Jonson's need
To keep a certain name immaculate
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His "teakettle" sound from somewhere smells like toast.
What's early for him for me is very late.
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It means not having to muscle your bag
Onto the baggage rack for the flight to Dublin.
A girl your daughter's age will do that for you.
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The day's too warm for the tart smoke of a turf fire,
Though dust motes in the sunlight are a kind of smoke,
The brass is polished, the stained-glass panels make
...

The deer longing to write this poem for you
Has been standing longer than a man can imagine
Or even come close to
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In the early afternoon, a fine rain falls
To three clocks ticking, not one of them on time.
Outside, the wet road goes nowhere but Cootehill.
...

Those beads of lapis, even the classical
Blues of dawn, are dimmed by comparison.
When I hand you this bunch of cornflowers
...