Richard St. Clair
Biography of Richard St. Clair
Richard St. Clair is a noted composer of modern classical music with over 130 compositions to his credit in all major genres. But he is also an accomplished poet, excelling in haiku and tanka (waka) from the Japanese tradition and Western fixed forms such as sonnet, cinquain, and sestina. He resides in Massachusetts (USA) .
Richard St. Clair Poems
Having no interest in resolving my life's pain, Ponderosa pines... towering far above me,
Chill in the Air
A chill in the air: painted across the sky, heavy clouds moving in high winds-
The snowflakes of the winter night Crown the land with regal mien; The driving wind seems to incite The snowflakes of the winter night
Rondeau Redouble: Cold Refrain
As daylight brought a song into my heart A bittersweet anointment cloaked the trees; With cunning craft, it blanched the branches’ art With chaste and chilling crystal reveries.
A bug is bugging me: it is not time To die just yet. How gray the winter sky This solstice beating down on me, oh my, Just time enough to spin another rhyme.
Circling crows fighting among each other: An albino appears and leads them off,
How desolate these first forsythias look in the cold wind; where they grow in the shade
Half melted snow soaking into my shoes- circling seagulls swooping near my head:
Shrill barking of the fenced-in fox terrier: The bright sun in the cold spring wind
Three feet deep the snow catches light- the gibbous moon in the starless sky
The snow having melted, there is only a high wind blowing cold rain in my face: Instead of new blossoms
To the Crocuses
Poor crocuses, beaten down by sleet this morning, your friends, the daffodils
stopping forbidden by the side of the turnpike: heron's nesting pond
twilight adagio... moving through the ocean fog cranberry workers
A bug is bugging me: it is not time
To die just yet. How gray the winter sky
This solstice beating down on me, oh my,
Just time enough to spin another rhyme.
Far off a church bell mournfully is pealing
Monotones appropriate to this day –
I’m tired: too sick, too weary – though I may
Yet find within myself some comic feeling
Neither cynic nor harsh critic could resist: