Poetry — December 17, 2012 11:59 — 1 Comment

Two Poems – Erin Malone


Snagged in the mouth of a terrible month—
even the trees, their hands
unnerving behind the frozen curtains.

Around us the dust lies
undisturbed as we whittle the winter,
the dumbness of dinner.

My mind makes my plate a circle:
The shape of what you said.
I’m thinking of snow, whether the wood

we’ve stacked will flare or smother.
I’m gauging the grade of our road,
the hunch that leads in one direction.





Photographs of Birds, Featuring Their Understudies

They have to function according to their character: they are obliged to migrate, to follow the natural force to move. –Jean Luc Mylayne

Heart overhead. Heart against a vast blue sky.
Heart in a barn, observing a cat.
Heart with a hay cart.
Heart on pillar and post.
Heart riffling red leaves.
Plate 12. Heart, 1980.
Heart with school bus approaching.
Heart at the window.
Heart with a moth in its mouth.
Back view of a heart.
Heart camouflaged. Dark-eyed heart.
Heart in scrubby landscape.
Heart with horses. Skittish heart.
Heart beside red and black stitched boots.
Heart near a blue truck.
Beautiful blue-crested heart.
Startled heart. Heart with cactus bloom.
Heart on one leg, heart on a wire.
Plate 67. 2000. Heart feeding heart’s young.
Open-beaked heart, head feathers askew.



Erin Malone’s poems have appeared in journals such as Field, Poetry Northwest, Beloit Poetry Journal, POOL and online at Verse Daily. Her chapbook, What Sound Does It Make, won the Concrete Wolf Award in 2007. The recipient of grants from Washington’s Artist Trust, 4Culture and the Colorado Council of the Arts, she has taught writing at the University of Colorado in Colorado Springs, Richard Hugo House in Seattle, and at the University of Washington Rome Center in Italy. Currently she teaches poetry in Seattle Arts & Lectures' Writers in the Schools program.

One Comment

  1. Linda McGeady says:

    Wow, Erin, I want to read more of your work. ‘Impasse’ speaks strongly to me: the sense of place makes me think of Seamus Heany. ‘Photographs of Birds’ is unlike anything I’ve read. Deft.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney