Hyacinth Drift
I do not understand how anyone can live
without some small place of enchantment
to turn to.
– Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
I. Mekong Delta
a labyrinth of confusion
this hyacinth drift
purple smear across green
waters blossoms cluster
before the bow breaks
dragon eye boats passing
blossoms gather again
in the wake moving
with each gathering wave
we watch them rise & fall
as they drift floating
islands in a bustling delta
this vast system of channels
thick swamps & sand bars
where wide & narrow
currents flow quickest
past stilted markets here
where waters runs deepest
channels open & close again
as hyacinths keep drifting
at their own rhythm
where are these flowers from
& where are they headed
floating through life’s abyss
struggling battered & bruised
these days thick with humidity
we forget the pace of the world
learning how to best trust nature
II. River Styx – Florida
fed by hidden artesian springs
at the margins of the central ridge
defying gravity bringing water
from the depths of Florida’s cellar
slough waters barely a ripple
or splash taking their time
wandering through oxbows
past islands & bayous black
water swamps where the flow
creep past cypress knees
swirling at the river’s edge
shining silver like mercury
in the sun’s glare obscuring
sunken logs a shy gator
watch as a small john boat
passes downstream among
the hyacinths drifting in slack
current fusing with frog’s-bit
its heart-shaped petals a white
floral mat against the riverbanks
bounded with dense pocosin
sabal palms & red cedars fire
scorched black beyond
the waterline broom sedge &
scrub hickory take root on sandy
hard pan slash pine hammocks
& wiregrass savannah rooted in
saturated soils perched aquifier
imagine Charon ferrying souls
among the drifting hyacinths
across this modern River Styx
where lost souls may still wander
like these islands of purple blossoms
along fetid banks peaty muck
reeking strongly of death & decay
Ice Pond
constellations of gulls hover
above the ice pond where mallards
hold court on its marshy leeway
heads dipping beneath the surface
rising again nibbling for a moment
then lowering them again in unison
duck bottoms aimed skyward
gulls descending to the pond squawking
they drop from the silver sky gently
gracefully settling quietly along
pond edges to frolic & splash
taking no notice of the osprey assuming
his higher station surveying
all that is occurring far below
come winter the pond grows very still
thin ice spreads first from marshy edges
soon to thicken & seal it firm & tight
gone are the gulls & ducks & osprey
having migrated south to warmer latitudes
a cold wind sweeps the snows away
& falls silent ice glistening bright
The Baffled King
in memory of Leonard Cohen (1934-2016)
leaving Westmont behind preferring the bohemian life of Le Plateau he sat on his stoop in the rue Vaillièrres watching the children play in the park across the street others strolled past as he sketched poems song lyrics magic was afoot sansregret secret chords that pleased the lord
this was home but he lives here no longer passing on the Left Coast still seeking a revelation of himself a healed wound he rests now on the far side of Mont Royal buried before anyone knew he was gone they come now to his quiet stoop with flowers it is a sad day it is a broken hallelujah
Tilghman Island
stillness descends through the early morning hours as dawn breaks over Harris Creek a blue heron strides on long legs through mud & eel grass a skipjack crew silently prepares for a day dredging oysters on the Little Choptank anticipating rough waters forecasters post warnings 25 knot winds & seas six foot not uncommon on the bay in early December
the Rebecca Ruark quits Dogwood Harbor just after dawn Tilghman watermen huddle for warmth wind & seas strengthen with passage from the quiet creek into the bay other boats in the harbor that morning left their moorings crews standing shoulder to shoulder along the gunwales they set sail for the open bay for the oyster rock that will make their pay & feed their families
Steven B. Rogers is originally from Chicago and is a forensic human rights historian based in Washington, DC. He is the editor of A Gradual Twilight: An Appreciation of John Haines (CavanKerry, 2004), and his essays, reviews, and poems have appeared in earlier issues of Gargoyle, and in several other publications. He and his wife are longtime residents of historic Mount Rainier, Maryland. They summer on Monhegan Island in Maine where the two poems appearing in this issue were written.