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About this poet

James Arthur is the author of Charms Against Lightning (Copper Canyon Press, 2012). He teaches at Johns Hopkins University and lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

Hundred Acre Wood

Some of these stories are too sweet for me.
Winnie-the-Pooh is so innocent, his little songs leave me cold.
 
But I like this—your hand across my hand,
your head against my shoulder. Your first winter, I carried you
 
even along the margins of the highway,
strapped against my chest in a sling. You never can tell with bees,
 
says Pooh, who seems to believe that almost nothing can be told,
but I am your morose, restless father,
 
and you are four years old. You like front-end loaders
and every kind of train;
 
I like reading to rooms of strangers, and a few drinks at the airport
while I’m waiting for my plane.
 
I like the book’s final chapter, a story you don’t yet understand,
in which boy and bear
 
climb to Galleons Lap for one last look out across the land—
at the sandy pit, the six pines,
 
the Hundred Acre Wood. Don’t forget me, says the boy to the bear,
who has no wish to understand
 
what he does not already know. Little boy who I carried
along the highway in the winter in northern Michigan,
 
I like hearing you in the morning
when you lie in your dark room, and sing.

Copyright © 2018 James Arthur. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

Copyright © 2018 James Arthur. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Winter 2018.

James Arthur

James Arthur

James Arthur is the author of Charms Against Lightning (Copper Canyon Press, 2012). He teaches at Johns Hopkins University and lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

by this poet

poem

O hefty hardcover on the built-in shelf in my parents’ living room,
O authority stamped on linen paper, molted from your dust jacket,
Questing Beast of blue and gold, you were my companion

on beige afternoons that came slanting through

2
poem

These kids watching so intently
on every side of the display
must love the feeling of being gigantic:
of having a giant’s power
over this little world of snow, where buttons
lift and lower
the railway’s crossing gate, or switch the track,
or make the bent wire topped with a toy

poem

I used to be as unsentimental as anyone could be.
Now I’m almost absurd, a clown, carrying you on my shoulders
around and around Palmer Square, through the cold night wind,
as stores lock up, and begin closing down. Goodnight,

fair trade coffee. Goodnight, Prada shoes. Goodnight soon,