Winter 1988 • Vol. X No. 1 Poetry |

The Hermit Wordman

Was he ill? Living in the empty house, in the one room, in the wind-peopled house, windows and doors continually creaked; a garrulous fire; jackdaws on the roof tree muttered surprise at the warmth, and all these sounds seemed to him to become the beginning of words. Beyond the hill, forest. He walked in the fire-rides, strayed inside the trees, padded on the velvet years of the pine needles, stood like a tree, listened to the ship-siren winds; as if a cathedral organ could play itself, and its aimless rise and fall, the rap of twigs in the wind, soft calls of the small birds, became the beginning of words. Yet, what is that but simply what he was? The residuary legatee of language molding the earth to words, till even silence molded a quiet world reborn in words: some shapely phrase, to be understood—or half.

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The Deed Is Done

By John Holloway

Was he ill? Living in the empty house, in the one room, in the wind-peopled house, windows and doors continually creaked; a garrulous fire; jackdaws on the roof tree muttered […]

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