Wednesday, January 8, 2014

January 2014

FEATURED POET: Tim McNulty is a poet, essayist, and nature writer. He is the author of three poetry collections,Ascendance, In Blue Mountain Dusk, and Pawtracks, and ten poetry chapbooks.  He is also the author of eleven books on natural history, including Olympic National Park: A Natural History.  He lives with his family in the foothills of Washington’s Olympic Mountains.Check him out here!


Some Ducks


"Now, if we're real quiet...," I whisper to Caitlin,

and with the next step
a thunder of wings fills the sky,
cloudburst of feathers and spray
as dozens of mallards explode
                        from the small pond.
Blue-white shimmer of wingbars and vapor
billows across the winter sky.

Caitlin stands frozen,
as a second, then third wave
                        erupts before us,
astonished
that our quiet approach
could trigger such spectacular alarm.

The roiled surface splashes up in waves
over the shore ice,
the din of wingbeats fades,
and the sky is suddenly
                        monumental in its emptiness.

Our eyes meet with my unfinished thought:


"...we might see some ducks."

Tim McNulty


My Father Speaking

In those years, the oughts and early teens,
it was woods from Mt. Pleasant Street clear
to West Peak.  Eight of us kids then—
Fran wasn't born yet—and I'll be honest,
we were often hungry.  We'd find food
where we could.

In fall when the chestnuts were ripe
we'd comb McCarty's woods for them.
We smaller kids would get a boost up
to the lower limbs, but
the big boys would find stout logs
and give the trees a whack. Oh brother,
would those chestnuts come showering down.

We'd fill gunnysacks, all we could carry,
and haul them back to Ma
who'd roast them in the cookstove. 
The house would fill with their flavor,
the nicest, sweetest nuts you ever ate.

In 1917 the blight took them all. 
They never came back.
When you were kids I'd bring home
bags of European chestnuts, remember?
But nothing, nothing compared to those wild nuts
from the woods.

To tell the truth,

I don't know what we'd have done without them.

Tim McNulty

Write your Poem!
What does your family inspire for the internal portion of the poem.   Although poetry was the language of royal court life and even the story telling medium poets seem to always find gentle ways to address what is intimate and central.  Write your poem in the snow, or on a napkin and let the ink float away in a melting drift.  

Baby's World

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters. 

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