PF detail from Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Beach Scene, Guernsey (Children by the Sea in Guernsey) - 1883;

ISSN 
1942-2067


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Last updated:
October 2009

 

Cynthia Brackett-Vincent holds a B.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington and an A.A. in Social Sciences. Since 1995, she has published and edited the Aurorean poetry journal. Her poetry and nonfiction appear in the U.S. and abroad. Over 100 of her poems have been published, featured, or are forthcoming in journals, a chapbook, and online in venues such as YankeeMagazine.com. Three of her articles appear in Educators as Writers: Publishing for Personal and Professional Development(Peter Lang Publishing, 2006). She's judged poetry locally, regionally, and nationally, including Writers Digest’s annual competition. Cynthia lives in rural Maine where she often offers poetry workshops to adults and is active in bringing poetry into the public schools. Her co-edited anthology with Carol Smallwood, Contemporary American Women: Our Defining Passages is forthcoming in fall of 2009 from All Things That Matter Press. 

Please visit our Folios to read more about this remarkable poet.

Claude Monet : Water Garden and Bridge

Maine, Orion | Come Morning | Hummingbirds Instead

 

Maine, Orion

Unforgiving November Sky here.
Orion ascends over dark fingers of trees.

I remember how my father pronounced Betelgeuse
bright star of the Hunter’s shoulder—
how he pointed with his big toe,
arms limp with polio but strong left leg lifted high,
cutouts scissored into the tips of each sock.

I remember when my son first traced
the flashing belt, the pointed sword—
raising his little mitten up, up
into all the galaxies
born that night on the salty air.

Arms reach to draw me into drowsy
sleep. Betelgeuse blinks. Somewhere, father.

First published in Harbor Journal, Vol. II. 2008

 

Come Morning

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not seen.

Hebrews 11:1, KJV

September’s early dusk. Kaleidoscope of light
through low trees. Starbursts become pinholes,
play tricks on the eyes. Minute by minute
each disappears. My small corner of earth gives up day.
What was there—perhaps there now—reduced
to faulty memory. Suspect memory. Nothing
to hold onto. Lights to turn on in here.

Yet this is the time the deer will come. A doe
with her fawn. In a precarious thicket between
summer & fall, she’ll teach him to nuzzle
only the choicest gems—cones dark as moonless night,
seedy & oversweet. I know this. Come morning,
dew-covered & new-sunlit fruits will gleam
on the ground. Come morning, the grasses will genuflect.

 

Hummingbirds Instead

Inbox full, but I’m outside
chasing hummingbirds instead—
camera bouncing back & forth
each time they flit from tree to tree.
On the next bough & then the next—
needle-beak silhouette dark against sky
ruby-flash quick on blue
& suddenly I see the rest—as if my indoor eyes
had fallen away—
buttercups tall, sun-creamy yellow
& the blackberries—blackberries flowering
white like lace—
like love.