Amy Clampitt Poems (22 Poems)

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    The Kingfisher (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    In a year the nightingales were said to be so loud they drowned out slumber, and peafowl strolled screaming beside the ruined nunnery, through the long evening of a dazzled pub crawl, the halcyon color, portholed by those eye-spots’ stunning … Continue reading

    A Hairline Fracture (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    Whatever went wrong, that week, was more than weather: a shoddy streak in the fabric of the air of London that disintegrated into pollen and came charging down by the bushelful, an abrasive the color of gold dust, eroding the … Continue reading

    Stacking The Straw (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    In those days the oatfields’ fenced-in vats of running platinum, the yellower alloy of wheat and barley, whose end, however gorgeous all that trammeled rippling in the wind, came down to toaster-fodder, cereal as a commodity, were a rebuke to … Continue reading

    Brought From Beyond (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd predilection unheard of by Marco Polo when he came upon, high in Badakhshan,         that blue stone’s embedded glint of pyrites, like the dance of light on water, or of … Continue reading

    A Cure At Porlock (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    For whatever did it-the cider at the Ship Inn, where the crowd from the bar that night had overflowed singing into Southey’s Corner, or an early warning of appendicitis- the remedy the chemist in the High Street purveyed was still … Continue reading

    The Cooling Tower (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    By night a laddered diagram seen from the windows of this bedroom town-rayflowcrs of dread ascending and descending- identifies the cooling tower, insomniac vision revealed by day as a grayed obese archangel, its twiddled dirk of ash and rhinestone a … Continue reading

    Dancers Exercising (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    Frame within frame, the evolving conversation is dancelike, as though two could play at improvising snowflakes’ six-feather-vaned evanescence, no two ever alike. All process and no arrival: the happier we are, the less there is for memory to take hold … Continue reading

    Gradual Clearing (Amy Clampitt Poems)

    Late in the day the fogwrung itself out like a spongein glades of rain,sieving the half-invisiblecove with speartips;then, in a liftingof wisps and scarves, of smoke-ringsfrom about the islands, disclosingwhat had been waveringfishnet pliss? as a smoothnessof peau-de-soie or just-ironedpercale, … Continue reading

    Salvage (Amy Clampitt Poem)

    Daily the cortege of crumpled defunct cars goes by by the lasagna- layered flatbed truckload: hardtop reverting to tar smudge, wax shine antiqued to crusted winepress smear, windshield battered to intact ice-tint, a rarity fresh from the Pleistocene. I like … Continue reading

    Syrinx (Amy Clampitt Poem)

    Like the foghorn that’s all lung, the wind chime that’s all percussion, like the wind itself, that’s merely air in a terrible fret, without so much as a finger to articulate what ails it, the aeolian syrinx, that reed in … Continue reading

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