Russell Thornton Poems
|1.||Foot Of St. Georges Avenue||2/15/2007|
|2.||Nest Of The Swan's Bones||10/25/2008|
|4.||My Daughter And The Seagull's Cry||3/4/2013|
|5.||The Aeschylus Rock||3/4/2013|
|11.||A Tunisian Notebook #7||1/10/2016|
|13.||The Summer Grass||1/10/2016|
|15.||The Churches Of Skopelos||8/11/2014|
|17.||The Beginnings Of Stars||3/1/2006|
|18.||A Memory Of A Deer||3/1/2006|
Comments about Russell Thornton
The card you gave me, your small handwriting
on the back - is gone. But the deep black ink
of the artist's drawing pen stayed with me,
and the ancient couplets became the dark
that holds the living organs, the same dark
through which the deer runs, giving off thin smoke
as it seeks the stream. I enter that dark
now in sleep, and I hear you: What you bear,
I will like my own body bear and tend.
I will be the breath in the animal
that pants and whose heart chants through it,
that burns like the one fire in a night camp,
and that departs from the night ...
All I could do while I stood there
dazed in the dim bare room
was wonder why the price of one
was five dollars more than the others.
The three sat down and faced me
in a line, nearly indistinguishable,
legs tucked in at their sides,
leaning on the heels of their hands.
All were lolling and demure,