Hunger for Something Easier

I suppose now you'll deny it all, 

there was no pig in the woods,
hair up on his back like barbed wire,

eyes sunk and runny in crusted tunnels

along the snout.  And we didn’t run

through red brambles, banging our legs

against stumps until we flung ourselves

into the thorny arms of an apple tree. 

You'll say we didn't stay shoved up

against the bark breathing bright spice

and pitching green fruit to frighten away

the pig.  You'll never say you were afraid

or that I held you and you held me

and we crouched on the thin branches

until night slunk in, and a hunger

for something easier turned the pig away. 

from Tongue, Red Hen Press, 2010   

Rachel Contreni Flynn









The good angel

The one I wanted came,
the one I called.

Not the one who sweeps away defenseless skies,
stars without homes,
moons without a country,
The kind of snows that fall from a hand,
a name,
a dream,
a face.

Not the one who tied death
to his hair.

The one I wanted.

Without scraping air,
without wounding leaves or shaking windowpanes.

The one who tied silence
to his hair.

To scoop out, without hurting me,
a shoreline of sweet light inside my chest
so that my soul could sail.

Rafael Alberti

Translated by Mark Strand

Rachel Contreni Flynn
Throw yourself out of yourself
                            --Paul Celan
It's summer in Maine! 

I'm bush hogging a path through our woods, writing poems about mimicry, organizing events with fabulous folks for the Beloit Poetry Journal, and traveling this gorgeous state for baseball games and swimming holes.
Check Announcements to join me in some of these festivities ! 

I think that poetry is mysterious and essential. 

A wonderful and surprising image seems to have a taste:  like dates eaten out of a copper bowl.  

The best poetry advice I ever got was from Chris Forhan,  Say the strange thing, then don't explain yourself.   

My first experience with poetry was listening to my Grandma recite Edna St. Vincent Millay poems in her sun-filled sewing room.

I wrote the main section of my book, Tongue, in 4 days of solitude in 2008 and don't think I've quite recovered yet.

My favorite poem might be The Good Angel.     

"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else."  -- ED

I have recieved some of the happiest poetry news in the midst of caring for others.  Coincidence?  Read here.

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