Chard deNiord

Chard deNiord

THE MANTLE

catches the small blue flame that lights

the room, then glows on high in the hiss of gas.

A sheath of silk, it rounds the flame

behind the lantern’s glass.

It’s nothing and something when the flame expires

like the gown of a ghost that’s gone inside.

It’s a body that burns to a single ash

but still ignites like an oil-soaked rag

at the touch of a flame.

—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020

__________

Chard deNiord: “I live on ten wild acres in Westminster West, Vermont, where my wife and I have planted two gardens. She paints and I write when we’re not gardening. I write because I have always had to since I was about fifteen. My two poems in this issue came to me one day while I was pulling weeds. For reasons that are just as mysterious as my need to write and date back to my days as a divinity student, I’ve always been intrigued by the paradox of fecklessness as an essential source for inspiration, as well as an antidote for boring perfection. With regard to the ‘flame’ in ‘The Mantle,’ I’m equally intrigued by the mystery of fire that feeds invisibly off the frailest material. I view it as a metaphor for writing poetry itself.”(web)

Chard deNiord

THE LACK

So I

am feckless I

admit,

for I

was born without

sufficient feck,

which is why

I take a supplement

of it,

along with all

my other pills

and stuff,

although it’s never quite

enough.

So I

digress as a way

to curse

my dearth of feck,

as if

a prolegomenon or plot

could plug the drain

of my so-leaky self,

and then

an afterward as well,

but no,

not yet.

I had a dream last night

in which

I was enough—

blessed

with a speck

that tipped the scale

to bliss;

but lo,

I couldn’t sleep

for long and woke

to what

I felt was far

too much and missed

my old

ironic want.

So I confess,

feck is more

except

when it is less.

—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020

__________

Chard deNiord: “I live on ten wild acres in Westminster West, Vermont, where my wife and I have planted two gardens. She paints and I write when we’re not gardening. I write because I have always had to since I was about fifteen. My two poems in this issue came to me one day while I was pulling weeds. For reasons that are just as mysterious as my need to write and date back to my days as a divinity student, I’ve always been intrigued by the paradox of fecklessness as an essential source for inspiration, as well as an antidote for boring perfection. With regard to the ‘flame’ in ‘The Mantle,’ I’m equally intrigued by the mystery of fire that feeds invisibly off the frailest material. I view it as a metaphor for writing poetry itself.” (web)

Rattle: Poetry

… without pretension since 1995.

December 14, 2020

December 11, 2020