Print article



On one of my last nights
I go out into the yard again.
A thick fog amplifies
and mutes the street lights.
The neighbor’s chimney
extends a dark shadow
straight upwards and flaring,
because of the light and the fog.
I go out again out of joy,
as tea brews on the stove.
I?ve eaten chestnuts and drunk
one cup already in the sweet
warmth of the room. Out
into the yard just to see
the chimney smoke from my house.
Something I’ve made.
I do this five or six times
because I can’t help it,
because I can’t breathe the air
enough, or be in the fog enough,
or encounter dogs barking
far off or goat bells enough,
or the hidden in the fog and the dark
stones of houses enough, or
the smoke from my chimney
sometimes dipping down
then disappearing, or disappearing
before I can see it happen.

Tryfon  Tolides


* From the editor' s desk

"Poem" stands out by virtue of the provocative incipit "On one of my last
nights . . . "  which John of the Cross’s "la noche oscura" would instantly
recognize. The confident, sure-footed (no metrical pun intended) " . . .
then disappearing, or disappearing // before I can see it happen,"  is a
"fusion" moment for the reader and the read.