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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chase Twichell
Chase Twichell
Born in 1950, Chase Twichell is the author of several books of poetry including Northern Spy...
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FURTHER READING
Poems about Landscapes
from In This World of 12 Months
by Marcella Durand
Rocket Fantastic [excerpt]
by Gabrielle Calvocoressi
A lane of Yellow led the eye (1650)
by Emily Dickinson
A Small Hot Town
by Collier Nogues
A Story
by Philip Levine
At the Fishhouses
by Elizabeth Bishop
Balance
by Adam Zagajewski
Coastal Plain
by Kathryn Stripling Byer
For-The-Spirits-Who-Have-Rounded-The-Bend IIVAQSAAT
by dg nanouk okpik
from Crossing State Lines [Shirtsleeved afternoons]
by Rita Dove
Hovering at a Low Altitude
by Dahlia Ravikovitch
Imaginary June
by C. D. Wright
Lake Havasu
by Dorianne Laux
Landscape With The Fall of Icarus
by William Carlos Williams
One Day
by Joseph Millar
Pied Beauty
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Prairie Spring
by Willa Cather
The Pasture
by Robert Frost
The Philosopher in Florida
by C. Dale Young
This Lime Tree Bower My Prison
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Useless Landscape
by D. A. Powell
Where I Live
by Maxine Kumin
Winter Morning
by William Jay Smith
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Inland

 
by Chase Twichell

Above the blond prairies,
the sky is all color and water.
The future moves
from one part to another.

This is a note
in a tender sequence
that I call love,
trying to include you,
but it is not love.
It is music, or time.

To explain the pleasure I take
in loneliness, I speak of privacy,
but privacy is the house around it.
You could look inside,
as through a neighbor's window
at night, not as a spy
but curious and friendly.
You might think
it was a still life you saw.

Somewhere, the ocean
crashes back and forth
like so much broken glass,
but nothing breaks.
Against itself,
it is quite powerless.

Irises have rooted
all along the fence,
and the barbed berry-vines
gone haywire.

Unpruned and broken,
the abandoned orchard
reverts to the smaller,
harder fruits, wormy and tart.
In the stippled shade,
the fallen pears move
with the soft bodies of wasps,
and cows breathe in
the licorice silage.

It is silent
where the future is.
No longer needed there,
love is folded away in a drawer
like something newly washed.
In the window,
the color of the pears intensifies,
and the fern's sporadic dust
darkens the keys of the piano.

Clouds containing light
spill out my sadness.
They have no sadness of their own.

The timeless trash of the sea
means nothing to me—
its roaring descant,
its multiple concussions.
I love painting more than poetry.






From Horses Where the Answers Should Have Been: New and Selected Poems by Chase Twichell. Copyright © 2010 by Chase Twichell. Used by permission of Copper Canyon Press.
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