Salem, MA’s North Shore Art*Throb reviews A Bow from My Shadow. Read how Luke Irwin’s poetry “cuts the tapestry” of Alex Miller’s:
The priests in the trees
have changed their robes,
to the brutal temple
of the woods have
brought back gold,
lit the branches’ tips.
In wind the sticks
at last issue
a crown jeweled
whose gold melts
through the rusting dark.
The priests of
render God’s voice
in blood colors,
shear down the veil
that parses hung lofty
to the undone temples
of a copse have brought
frozen the cardinal’s heart.
Announcement: An author’s reception and reading of A Bow From My Shadow will be taking place Saturday, November 30, 2013 06:00 PM – 08:30 PM, Asheville, NC. Alex Miller of Third Cardinal (and Luke Irwin by webcast) will be reading from their newly released collection. Space is limited–contact the authors for more details.
The Curator’s Seth Morgan reviews A Bow From My Shadow, the new collection of poetry from Third Cardinal’s authors.
The poets of Third Cardinal are proud to announce the release of A Bow From My Shadow, a collection of poems in dialogue from Ecco Qua Press. Generous customer reviews are already starting to appear. We thank all our readers here for their support and attention, and ask that if you have enjoyed our writing these last few years, you will invest in this richly printed little book.
Just a reminder that A Bow from My Shadow, a book of poems in dialogue from the authors at Third Cardinal, is out October 1st from Ecco Qua Press. It represents years of work, to which all of our readers have contributed, and we’d be honored if you’d pick up a copy. You can search for the book at Amazon.com and Barns and Noble, or find out more and buy direct at http://eccoquapress.com/.
A wave’s white flag unfurls against the headland.
We’re pleased with summer’s long foreseen surrender;
hot noons betrayed by maples fringing umber,
horny insects dying in the wetlands.
You told me victory can read as loss—
The pale moths of our days mating in long
grass until their sailcloth bodies fall
apart. That will be the way we gloss
a season. The way I’d name your legs
laid down together dawn horizon,
or you my beard a tangle of black weeds.
For both of us, the ocean’s tannin dregs
will mean September. But you? I won’t rely on
Proserpine’s name to frame you. Of frames you have no need.