Fall 1968 • Vol. XXX No. 5 Poetry |

Driving All Night: The Scuppernong River

Robert Jackson DRIVING ALL NIGHT THE SCUPPERNONG RIVER Half a night after half a night at the office, driving for the coast and a hope of good fishing, we threaded through the market towns where pro politicians lay dreaming of prohibitions, but now we stop: two white wooden bridges rise in the risinog light over a sludgy neck of river, oyster boats mooning in the dank black basin. Their hexed spires glow. Nothing will budge but ringlets of water-bugs that lace the crooked pool. I look. The Chevy sits and chugs. All the lines on the map drop into the river's trap. What ghost am I meeting here? Some backwater bird flaps off, his feet trailing to knife the water- is this the clue? Can I still see the common swirl of things frozen in a certain frame of light- motion caught by the lens, the skin of the apple luminous, mv heartbeat isolated into hearing? Camera mind, resolve the perfect making of a line! Wlhat we see stopped dead still626 designs the journey, decides the will. Now down th

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My Room

By Judith Hemschemeyer

Robert Jackson DRIVING ALL NIGHT THE SCUPPERNONG RIVER Half a night after half a night at the office, driving for the coast and a hope of good fishing, we threaded […]

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