William Logan

Morning, Redux | Drift Road
March 23, 2018 Logan William

Morning, Redux


Another morning in the  obscure,
light  spackling the  clouds  rolling  in,
running before  some  storm.

The  sky flattened like an unstamped envelope.
The  local predators must have been  sleeping  in.
It was early November, songbirds

off on winter hols,  swifts
racketing down  the  chimney.
A lone  walker happened through the  scene,

more  shadow than man, the  sort  Tiepolo
might have finished off with  a brush-
stroke, with  perhaps a splash  of red for a hat.

A fiddlehead lifted  the  burden of new life,
relaxing  like an uncoiled spring.
The  air was still, as if yet had  lost its claim.



Drift Road


Great War  soldiers, scarred, papier-maché
(German?)—some elderly  uncle’s,  perhaps.
In wounded numbers they marched on shoebox trenches,
fields of Ypres lain across the worn  Oriental,

the  dog rolling  over the  lines like a tank.
I traded the doughboys to a neighbor boy
and  was taken by the  ear to repatriate
the  P.O.W.’s—through the  schoolyard’s

dank grass, in by the  kitchen door.
Weeks later  the  door  stood unlocked,
table  littered with  crumbs, New Bedford paper
cradling a juice glass, two drops  of blood  on the  front page.

I climbed the  stairs,  calling his name.
No one was there.  No one was there again.



William Logan’s writes poetry and a little criticism. He has published eleven books of poetry and eight books of essays and reviews. Logan has received, among other honors, the National Book Critics Circle Award in Criticism, the Aiken Taylor Award in Modern American Poetry, the Staige D. Blackford Prize for Nonfiction, the inaugural Randall Jarrell Award in Poetry Criticism, the Corrington Medal for Literary Excellence, the Peter I. B. Lavan Younger Poets Award, and the Allen Tate Prize.  He lives with the poet and artist Debora Greger in Gainesville, Florida, and Cambridge, England.