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Lessons of a Gentle Childhood

By Jeff Gundy Poetry

Under this skylight many lost things are visible. I see the mighty black and yellow spiders in the iris beds by the old garage and feel not a shred of fear. I could husk two dozen sticky ears of sweet corn and pick two quarts of strawberries on my achy knees without whining once. I…

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No Path

By Jeff Gundy Poetry

Kayak on the quarry: will you hug the shore, push straight across, waver or dawdle? No paths on the water. Almost November, and the poison ivy is still green. The soft trap of sky closes all around. An artful little spray of leaves near the shore, as though Martha Stewart were sitting in for God.…

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Passage

By Jeff Gundy Poetry

On the swift cruise there was only time and water, twin mothers of an anxious son. And money. In the long end of day we pushed right at the sun and failed again except at witness, the beauty softened by mist and latitude until we could almost bear it. What else could we do? We…

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Further Notes on the Martyrs

By Jeff Gundy Poetry

Our speaker has a tongue screw with him, though it is a replica. He speaks of spectacle, witness, dying well. One group’s criminals…. Stories are not preserved by accident. Heroes are made necessary by the nature of memory. Life is stronger than death, and that is why we must praise. I think. Identity depends on…

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Being the Song

By Jeff Gundy Poetry

             And I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.                                                    —Rilke So I could be a song. But a great song? Or a bluegrass tune with a decent chorus and a shift to the minor to savor every time, and a break I can almost…

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