Carolyn Forche
Sequestered Writing by Carolyn Forche

Sequestered Writing by Carolyn Forche

Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.White. ...

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Poem For Maya by Carolyn Forche

Poem For Maya by Carolyn Forche

Dipping our bread in oil tinswe talked of morning peelingopen our rooms to a momentof almonds, olives and windwhen we did not yet know what we were.The days in Mallorca were ...

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Elegy by Carolyn Forche

Elegy by Carolyn Forche

The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hourthe bottle in your coat half voda half winter light.To what and to whom does one say yes?If God were the uncertain, ...

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Skin Canoes by Carolyn Forche

Skin Canoes by Carolyn Forche

Swallows carve lake wind, trailers lined up, fish tins. The fires of a thousand small camps spilled on a hillside. I pull leeks, morels from the soil, fry chubs from the lake in ...

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Selective Service by Carolyn Forche

Selective Service by Carolyn Forche

We rise from the snow where we've lain on our backs and flown like children, from the imprint of perfect wings and cold gowns, and we stagger together wine-breathed into town ...

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Taking Off My Clothes by Carolyn Forche

Taking Off My Clothes by Carolyn Forche

I take off my shirt, I show you. I shaved the hair out under my arms. I roll up my pants, I scraped off the hair on my legs with a knife, getting white. My hair is the color of ...

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The Ghost of Heaven by Carolyn Forche

The Ghost of Heaven by Carolyn Forche

Sleep to sleep through thirty years of night,a child herself with child,for whom we searchedthrough here, or there, amidstbones still sleeved and trousered,a spine picked clean, a ...

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The Morning Baking by Carolyn Forche

The Morning Baking by Carolyn Forche

Grandma, come back, I forgotHow much lard for these rolls Think you can put yourself in the groundLike plain potatoes and grow in Ohio?I am damn sick of getting fat like you Think ...

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The Visitor by Carolyn Forche

The Visitor by Carolyn Forche

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left. It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,the ache of some field song in Salvador.The wind along the prison, cautiousas Francisco's ...

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The Testimony Of Light by Carolyn Forche

The Testimony Of Light by Carolyn Forche

Our life is a fire dampened, or a fire shut up in stone. --Jacob Boehme, De Incarnatione VerbiOutside everything visible and invisible a blazing ...

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The Garden Shukkei-En by Carolyn Forche

The Garden Shukkei-En by Carolyn Forche

By way of a vanished bridge we cross this riveras a cloud of lifted snow would ascend a mountain.She has always been afraid to come here.It is the river she most remembers, the ...

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The Colonel by Carolyn Forche

The Colonel by Carolyn Forche

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily ...

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Ancapagari by Carolyn Forche

Ancapagari by Carolyn Forche

In the morning of the tribe this name Ancapagari was given to these mountains. The name, then alive, spread into the world and never returned. Ancapagari: no foot-step ever ...

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Travel Papers by Carolyn Forche

Travel Papers by Carolyn Forche

Au silence de celle qui laisse reveur. —Rene CharBy boat to Seurasaari where the small fish were called vendace. A man blew a horn of birchwood toward the nightless sea.Still ...

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Kalaloch by Carolyn Forche

Kalaloch by Carolyn Forche

The bleached wood massed in bone piles, we pulled it from dark beach and built fire in a fenced clearing. The posts' blunt stubs sank down, they circled and were roofed by ...

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The Memory of Elena by Carolyn Forche

The Memory of Elena by Carolyn Forche

We spend our morning in the flower stalls counting the dark tongues of bells that hang from ropes waiting for the silence of an hour. We find a table, ask for paella,cold soup ...

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Reunion by Carolyn Forche

Reunion by Carolyn Forche

Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him. —MallarmeOn the phonograph, the voice of a woman already dead for three decades, singing of a man who could make her ...

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