Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012) and The Daodejing of Laozi, with David Breeden and Steven Schroeder (Lamar University Press, 2015). His new poems appear in Commonweal and North American Review. Garrison Keillor recently read his poem “Radiance” on the daily radio program The Writer’s Almanac.
Cry of the Hawk
The hawk’s shrill cry emitting from the twisted
Branches of the windbreak lining the scrub
Meadow pierces me. I remember when
My Labrador and I were walking back from
The brook on a summer day such as this one.
We looked at each other standing in
Our own disbelief, water still dripping from
Her coat the color of cinnamon. The hawk’s
Chick must have just dropped down from one
Of the high branches of the red pine out
Of its nest, tumbling onto the piles of needles
Surrounding the trunk. The mother’s call
Answering the chick’s shrieks, as it hobbled
On unsteady legs and claws, often balancing
Itself on its wings and tail feathers. The red-tail
Descended in a barely audible rush of its
Half-outstretched wings, landing at the base
Of the tree, alarm evident in the flaring pupils
Of its eyes, looking at us standing several yards
From her. She must have felt our wanting
To help her because she seemed to have
Acknowledged that in us before turning toward
The brush in which her chick had already
Disappeared into, thick with deadfall, detritus
Of beech leaves, and runners of princess pine.
We walked around her, giving her the berth
She deserved for her to carry out the rescue that
Only she was capable of. As she stood erect,
Lifting her beak and calling out to her chick, as
It weakly answered with its frail shrieks that rent
The air with the sound that could only be
Unmistakable as that of incomprehensible grief.
The Day after the Boston Marathon Bombings
In the Chapel of the Holy Spirit at Sacred Heart,
the young woman wept the day I was there;
her deep sense of mourning and her connection
to the divine brimmed within her
and filled the sanctity inside the space itself.
There was no pretense about her,
and a spectral beauty emanated from her.
I may never forget her for the distinct humility
that she exhibited, which presented itself
as a certain sweetness that pervaded the air,
as if there were incense burning,
although there was no incense being burned.
November Light
The morning sun shining through
the adolescent maple graces itself
beyond the two front windows
of my studio. The light this time
of the year is often more
of an inflected silver than struck
gold; and the maple’s leaves are
such a shade of scarlet,
that is infused with yellow, it is
as if the foliage is nuanced with
Monet’s vibrant pastels
and cast in Rodin’s hammered
bronze. How fortunate we are
to live in the world that offers us
its constant reminders of who
we are and what our true being is.
Portrait
Ed is leaning against the chain link
Of the portable cage he has moved
To the grass in the barnyard where
He is speaking to the Rottweiler,
The aging rescue dog, who cocks
His head, and holds his muzzle up
To listen to what Ed is saying to him,
As he coaxes him back to health
After the surgery in which the massive
Fatty tumor was removed from
His back and side. Ed speaks to him
With as much care as he solicitously
Places the old faded tablecloths
In the bed of daffodil shoots, whose
Spears have been warmed these nights
Of late April frost. Through Ed’s
Tenderness, the Rottweiler has nearly
Grown into a dog whose visage bears
The look of supreme loyalty, even with
A glint of gentleness mitigating
The ferocity in his steely brown eyes,
Although it would be against
Anyone’s better judgment to stick
A finger through the woven steel
Of the dog pen. When Ed unlatches
The lock and walks into the cage to place
The shiny metal bowl and the plastic
Water bucket on the ground, the dog
Backs away to make room then sits down
And looks up again in tribute to the man
Who has taken him walking the meadow
Behind the barn late past twilight
And into many a dusk. The stiff April
Wind blows through Ed’s white beard,
That flutters against his chest, and his
Shoulder-length hair. The dog’s eyes
Sparkle as Ed rubs his head and beneath
His chin with one of his calloused hands.
When the wind lets up, everything appears
To be resolved again, everything seems
To have been restored to its proper place,
Within the sacredness of the day.
The Galway Review 