By Robert Morgan
Robert Morgan has received popularity of sonorous poems rooted in his local Blue Ridge Mountains that function taut, forceful, frequently haunting imagery and punctiliously chiseled words. The poems in Terroir construct on his past paintings yet succeed in out in numerous new instructions, exploring reminiscence, kin narratives, the flora and fauna of timber and wooded area animals, and the poetry of labor. Readers of Morgan's fiction will realize many locations, issues, and voices, whereas fanatics of his poetry will see a clean strength in poems drawing on technology and folklore, local American heritage, and song. those elegantly written poems rejoice every little thing from the bonds of friendship and group to the fleeting sparkle of a drop of rain, gaining knowledge of ask yourself within the neighborhood and known, the sacred within the daily.
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I was my own church. Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?
This is not so far. Look at the eye of an ape, a dog: looks enough like me. But try: fish. Lobe-fin, bone of coelacanth. Try new bodies for new lives. I’d make a fine suit of love and disappear. 8: IN WHICH THEY MEMORIZE. The crooked tooth who went first. The way something blew your scarf as you ran, tossing off musts. The tyranny of dawn, repeating. The snow-like window between us. The shouldering through. The cardinal that flew from a wound. ( 40 ) The spill of your hair-thin chain as it broke while we slept and the gold links became us, and the locket was swallowed.
Except— scared, scared. ( 16 ) Diary of a Year without Pictures 5/13/06 Watching “Surviving the Icelandic Sea”— The ship is also the processor. There is a trough for spines, dumps to the ocean when he walks in the room like read it and weep. Somehow, I deserve this. The man who swam on his back for two days spoke to myself. Spoke to the gulls. Pulled his body to a shore of lava fields. No one believed him. They kept putting me back in. All my life, for research. Why have you not given up on us?