Heather Corbally Bryant is a Senior Lecturer at Wellesley College, the author of a prize-winning study of Elizabeth Bowen, and eleven books of poems. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, the Massachusetts Book Award, and have received honorable mention in the Finishing Line Press’s Open Chapbook competition.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Heather, what poems have you brought for us today?

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Crevices

Like ochre lichen growing in crevices between
Rocks, a woman's art seeds itself, choosing private
Spaces, places hidden from ordinary view--offering
A glimpse of beauty among what must
Be accomplished in the everyday day.

Artists of the past--Emily Dickinson, Virginia
Woolf, Mary Cassatt--they had no children,
Sometimes neither husband nor lover, either;
They were left each day with a blank canvas,
The white paper where they inscribed their rage,

Recording what was glorious to them,
And also most dangerous; I remember Yeats's dictum--
Perfection of the life or the art, one must choose--
One but not the other; I call to mind waves crashing
On rocks, water receding without noise,

Rushing, swirling, following ocean's force--
Its retreat opening fissures in rock, gaps between
Liquid and solid, stone and water--the most barren
Of all settings on earth where one spot of lichen
Brightens yellow and green after low tide.
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Lady Slippers on Pinnacle Road
(Cypripedium acaule)

Along curving roads we walk,
Pressing on towards orchards
Spreading over hillsides, green
Now, making fruit and leaves for
Summer shade; stone walls line
Old fields marking boundaries.
Where land has been won, lost,
Sold and fought over--

It has rained for a week but
Today the air begins to lighten,
As though it needs not hold so
Much moisture anymore--

A small verdant patch of wild grass
Grows up a ways from the road,
Dew glistens on tall blades; three
Lady Slippers sprout up, perfectly
Formed, jaunty, tender, their
Blossoms elegant on rigid stems,
Pink globes of brightness,
Guardians protecting our path.
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Gibbous Moon

Round white paper lantern hanging
Behind a trail of pink clouds, like
Feathers spread out from a pillow,
As twilight comes, clouds pass,
Turning to lavender cheer until
They've fled stage right.

Moon rises high and fast;
By supper's end, twilight has
Fallen, crepuscular and thin,
Not a speck of down remains, just
One big round satellite presides,
Phoebus in her gibbous phase
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Winter Berries

Wintering over, it's called, these brown
Sticks waving valiantly in the brisk
Wind, their last red berries
Lingering, luxuriating in their
New-found light; I collect as
Many as I might, knowing that
Their last blast of fire will keep
Me warm, hold some brightness
When heavy snows come.
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Red Dragonfly

Bright red insect hovering over chartreuse-green grass--
Whining, swooping, suddenly still, as if taken by
Surprise on this blue September day--

As if by chance we met, and I looked hard at every
Line and wing--

The same way words tumble from my pen--
Until I etch and scratch against the paper--
Fixing them until my mind is freed to fly.

You’ve been listening to the poems of Heather Corbally Bryant on the Poets Weave. I’m Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.