poetry

Monday Poems
4:15 pm
Mon December 15, 2014

"The Dipper In Winter"

Not Ursa Major, whose outer edge
points at Polaris, our North Star,
or the seven sisters of the Pleiades,
the six daughters of Atlas who shine
dark nights for the one who is lost,
but the little slate-black river bird
always rocking and bobbing
to an inner music at the edges
of ice, slick stone and cold water.
The one who flies low and goes
down under the surface to see
what the fish and the water spirits see,
down in the current where sun
and stars stream and smooth
the hard edges, regrets and fears,

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Student Response
1:39 pm
Tue December 9, 2014

"Josh Slotnick: The Farmer Who Rapped"

For the last several years, Robert Stubblefield has invited me to talk about The Write Question with students in one of the classes he teaches at the University of Montana. We talk about specific The Write Question programs students have listened to. Then I answer questions about the process of reading, interviewing, and creating programs for radio and the Web.

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Monday Poems
9:44 am
Mon December 8, 2014

"Itinerary"

Monologues of white interiors
time-dried of water and wind

crowds gather in history's emptiness
weightless in the hollows of memory

description without witness
so long ago lost.

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Monday Poems
10:42 am
Mon November 24, 2014

"Five Bars at the High Spot"

Credit Haley Young

It worked like this:
we clung to our telephones,
searching for clearance.
I rang for you over the river.
All water goes slant
to the place you need
most: mouth, sea, tributary,
and then into books
we love.

So you answered. “Hello,
great signal, wild scenery.”
We craved the high spots
and now you’d said it
up on the ledge of perfection
phone activated, scene made.

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The Write Question
9:47 am
Mon November 3, 2014

"Outside the St. Ignatius Mission"

We must be poets to hear from home
on nights like this. The moon
has a thousand echoes
in mud puddles all over town.

The old Mission looms behind life
like something so terribly lost
that life anchors to the loss.
Its aged walls wane to ghost at night.

Through stained glass dim candles radiate
like the soul of something ancient
through the continuance of itself.
Home is a deeper place,

submerged here by the landing of this world
we cannot have
God no longer thunders
from the sky, but whispers

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Mountain West Voices
5:00 am
Thu September 25, 2014

The Typewriter Poet: A Conversation With Tyler Knott Gregson

Credit Sarah Linden

A visit with poet Tyler Knott Gregson - an unlikely success story from Helena, Montana. He typed his first poem off the top of his head, standing up, on an old typewriter an a junk store. Three years and 900 poems later, he has a following of several hundred thousand people around the world.

(Broadcast: "Mountain West Voices," 9/24/14, Wednesday evenings, 7:30.)

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Monday Poems
6:50 am
Mon September 1, 2014

"The Hermit's Work

They'll wonder
that I left

my things—

my name on folded forms,
the job I did.

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Monday Poems
10:53 am
Mon August 18, 2014

"Magpie"

Corvidae, poems by B. J. Buckley

Magpie
infernally
multiple,
gangster-gaggle
in a poplar snag,
long liver,
egg sucker,
eater of eyes,
murderer of unfledged
nestlings,
carrion cleaner
of our own
assorted
homicides –
deer,
dog, feral
cats, porcupine, never
mind,
hardly
a blood trace
left
by the next
afternoon –
glorious harlequin
Magpie,
coal snow
burnt ash
night moon
examiner,
and us
except as surfeit
flesh
found
wanting.

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Monday Poems
6:10 am
Mon August 11, 2014

" Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout"

Riprap, poems by Gary Snyder

Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.

I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.

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Monday Poems
5:56 am
Mon August 4, 2014

"What Silence Is"

The Adagio in Rachmaninoff's
Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor
is so sweet-sad you stop what
you're doing, you can hardly
turn your ears from its deliberate
infiltration, you remember
what you didn't want to remember,
the sweetness of early love,
the sad days and nights that follow,
the way days and nights collapse
into one another in the fury of live
which is so like what later you call hate,
there are no laws for this, shrapnel, shards,
shattering, the indistinctness, the disappearances,

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