A pantun is like a hawk with a chicken––it takes its time about striking.
Malay proverb
Headlights are strung into the darkening sky.
Just off the highway a fever rises––sprawling
intentions. The night is a damp cloth,
stretched tight over the town’s illumined limbs.
Just off the highway a fever rises––sprawling
lights displace your presumed directions––bundled,
stretched tight over the town’s illumined limbs.
A hawk takes its time. Chicken ruffles its feathers.
Lights displace your presumed directions––bundled,
your arms are wings against the belly of night.
A hawk takes its time. Chicken ruffles its feathers.
You drive in circles, cutting the corners. At every turn
your arms are wings against the belly of night.
The mirror splits your view, which way––
you drive in circles, cutting the corners. At every turn
a flickering eye is waiting, cranked up to be.
The mirror splits your view, which way––
attention. As you stand in line for more,
a flickering eye is waiting, cranked up to be. Hawk,
when it strikes, pounces feathers into darkness.
Author Bio:
Leonore Hildebrandt has published poems in the Cafe Review, the Cimarron Review, Denver Quarterly, Drunken Boat, the Spoon River Poetry Review, and the Quercus Review, among other journals. Her translations of Rilke’s Elegies have appeared in Cerise Press. Her letterpress chapbook, The Work at Hand, is available from Flat Bay Press. Her first book of poetry THE NEXT UNKNOWN is now available at flatbaycollective.org. Winner of the 2013 Gemini Poetry Contest, she received fellowships from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Maine Community Foundation, and the Maine Arts Commission. She teaches writing at the University of Maine and serves as an editor for the Beloit Poetry Journal.
Malay proverb
Headlights are strung into the darkening sky.
Just off the highway a fever rises––sprawling
intentions. The night is a damp cloth,
stretched tight over the town’s illumined limbs.
Just off the highway a fever rises––sprawling
lights displace your presumed directions––bundled,
stretched tight over the town’s illumined limbs.
A hawk takes its time. Chicken ruffles its feathers.
Lights displace your presumed directions––bundled,
your arms are wings against the belly of night.
A hawk takes its time. Chicken ruffles its feathers.
You drive in circles, cutting the corners. At every turn
your arms are wings against the belly of night.
The mirror splits your view, which way––
you drive in circles, cutting the corners. At every turn
a flickering eye is waiting, cranked up to be.
The mirror splits your view, which way––
attention. As you stand in line for more,
a flickering eye is waiting, cranked up to be. Hawk,
when it strikes, pounces feathers into darkness.
Author Bio:
Leonore Hildebrandt has published poems in the Cafe Review, the Cimarron Review, Denver Quarterly, Drunken Boat, the Spoon River Poetry Review, and the Quercus Review, among other journals. Her translations of Rilke’s Elegies have appeared in Cerise Press. Her letterpress chapbook, The Work at Hand, is available from Flat Bay Press. Her first book of poetry THE NEXT UNKNOWN is now available at flatbaycollective.org. Winner of the 2013 Gemini Poetry Contest, she received fellowships from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Maine Community Foundation, and the Maine Arts Commission. She teaches writing at the University of Maine and serves as an editor for the Beloit Poetry Journal.
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