Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Poetry of Scott Carter

Scott Carter at Silk Creek with Graham

Scott Carter's Poetry

Untitled (for my mother)

The house that raised your children
Through windows and beyond walls
Is leveled.
Into weeds raised without reference
To measure or framework.
Save for the stones where vines
Surprise, constrict, devour...
Weeds have become a name
For the flowers we knew
And I scarcely remember
The difference anymore.

And the vines?
That hunger lies somewhere
Beneath all of this.
The stones
A broken shovel
A rusted hoe
And the sharp toothed rake
Overcome with the tangled voice
Of stone.

I can't pull the weeds from your voice
When you tell me the leaves I see at night
Won't return.
Or that my body is not mine when I look
At myself...Only when I sleep
Rests a heartbeat and sometimes I remember
The trees that held me
Away from the vines.

Scott Carter


piece: Edges.
I dig a shovel
from the ground.
Study its shape.
Contrast its capacity
and molecular story with
Broken bottles strewn.
Their fullness shattered in
Sharded around this hillside

Fractured vessels cast about this
Wild place.
Twisted metal
Tired forms
a labored memory.
Tossed in a suspended form
about this fertile ground.

Was it true?
Was it really like that?

She admired their grace
On the ice.
She knew their names...
Twisting human form
Tossed like vessels over this
Sloped bank.

Scott Carter


The air is green today
As if breathing the land
Could wish color into it.

But the way grass asserts itself
And returning birds call down
An intensity of light...

..In a month the willows
By the road will cloud.

Though the snow lies still.
Between the corn rows
I feel spring's slow idea
Begin to grow.

Scott Carter


If I were lost
In one of these fields
Among the anonomous corn,
I wouldn't know
Which way to turn.
Or toward my adopted town
With its Church
Peeling Feed Store.

I think this must be
What it is like when
The last breath goes.
And we wake in a new dimension.
I may be a ghost like the others
Dressed in old clothing

The wind blows past
And if in the past
I could say I am not afraid of anything
Now, I am afraid, deeply afraid of nothing.
The vastness of it all.

Out here in the fields
The trees are dying of loneliness.
Today's lesson: How fence and field
Are one question to be solved
In the germination of seed between them.
How each thing is connected
To every other thing.

To learn that knotting
Which ties together
Sky, fence, barn and field,
I look to the trees
And wait for their new clothing.

Scott Carter

Looking for the Circular

In sunday's paper
One magic eye with two voices
Paints a disturbing picture of history.
Where I'm coming from,
The sun rises on the twilight zone again
And a writer's life is for the dogs.
If you've seen one classic clown,
You've seen them all,
Swept up in renewal of life.
Still, each word is a search.
A gripping tale of survival
Packed with emotion.
Yes, it may be true that remodeling
Brings life to the living room but,
To find the word inside?
You have to learn to just do it.
Some think it's
A different kind of place.
That's like saying there are
Different ways to buy televisions.
I want to see stars.
Star stuff on sale.
I want to dance to the fiddles.
Help the playground be a place
Where nerds fall in love
And dance like happy penguins.

(from words randomely clipped from a sunday paper)
Scott Carter

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