"Lunar Night in the Crimea" by Ivan Aivazovsky‘All Divinity Is Love or Wonder’ and Other Poetry by Cindy Hill The Society November 18, 2020 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 3 Comments All Divinity Is Love or Wonder* New Harbor October 2020 All Divinity is love or wonder. The moon pulls up the sea, while rocks plunge deeply underneath; ragged, cracked asunder, synclined metamorphic panoply. Moonlight fractures on the night-black surface, embers dancing over dying coals. A Fresnel beam each fifteen seconds passes, warning of Monhegan Island’s shoals. Pulse and gentle pulse, the sea, the shore, the turn of granite tide and melting stones, waves erode the soul down to its core. Pulse of wonder, cut by calling crows navigating limbs of twisted pines. Gnarled roots delve into the divine. *”A Valediction of the Book,” 4th stanza, John Donne These Woods Are Mine These woods are mine. I know the trail. I trace the line of every snail that leaves a shine along the cracked rock eaves over the race of water cold and black beneath the pine. I wait. I see the sunlight on the ferns, dappled flight of mayflies flit on morning mist that glides above the stream and turns between, like dreams that vanish, wakening. My house is here. It does not need a gate to lead the moose to moss, nor sign for deer to find green growing shoots when spring comes late and winter fails to loose its vines of fear. I sleep. The crows return from where they’ve flown. I lay my bones among the roots and stone. Plum Island Solstice I can see the Isle of Shoals across the rock mouth of the Merrimac, where Thoreau canoed two weeks, and mourned his brother’s loss; where fishing vessels roll, or wait to tow unwary pleasure craft back into port. A line of breaking waves marks the place where river meets the sea, and just a short way up the beach, seals on a jutting quay bark and bray and stay just out of reach of boys with pointed sticks who poke, oblivious to mothers’ scolding; for they cannot teach a child of eight to see the obvious: How swiftly turns the tide, how steep its toll, how soft brown eyes can hold lost sailors’ souls. Cindy Hill is an attorney, writer and passionate gardener living in Vermont. She has been writing poetry since 1970 and been writing professionally since 1978. She has won a number of awards for journalism and short fiction, and the 2002 Ralph Nading Hill award for a narrative poem. Her poems have been published in Literary Mama, PanGaia, Sagewoman, WildEarth, Vermont Life, Measure, and the National Public Radio Themes and Variations program. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 3 Responses jd November 18, 2020 Hi Cindy, All three are lovely and I really enjoyed reading them. I hope you don’t mind my bringing one little thing to your attention. Did you perhaps mean to put the apostrophe after the “s” on sailors? Thank you for the opportunity of reading. jd Reply C.B. Anderson November 18, 2020 All three poems, Cindy, evince a rare gracefulness of expression, and the ideas & images so expressed are subtle and often trenchant, but I had some questions about the meter in “All Divinity ….” Most of the lines are trochaic, many of these catalectic. A few other lines are pure iambic, with or without a masculine rhyme ending. These irregularities do not detract from the flow or the meaning of the poem, but I could not help but wonder what your metrical plan was, if you even worry about that kind of thing. Reply James A. Tweedie November 19, 2020 Cindy, Reading your descriptive imagery is like looking at a painting and marveling at the masterfully placed dabs of colored paint that bring it to life. I have visited the coast you describe and, two years ago, was pleased to enjoy a stay of several days on Star Island (one of the “Shoals”). Your poems carried me back to that time and place and conjured memories of having delved with roots into the divine. Thank you for sharing your verbal/visual art with us. Indeed, these three poems, if framed, could well grace the walls of a Portsmouth art gallery. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.