Saturday, June 11, 2016

Who Will Love the Crow

I am delighted to share with you the exciting news of my book release Who Will Love the Crow through Winter Goose Publishing. This is my debut solo collection and features the photography from Olivia MacDonald, my daughter, whose photographs I feature on my blog. Visit my author's page

Selected Amazon Reviews

"the poems speak to us all about intimate, as well as universal moments, both fleeting and permanently etched on our hearts."

"They're gorgeous themes and imagery elegantly packaged into a readable contemporary form that hearkens also back to romanticists. Her work is also rife with sensuality and tension. They're brooding and also hopeful."

"There is a simultaneous sense of integration and distance which invites the reader to thoughtfully consider and develop their own, unique relationship to the subject matter from a place of quiet stillness and peace."

"In Theme, tone, and content, Miriam Dunn's poetry speaks the language of the soul. Her innate gift for rhyming evokes emotional power by its fluid simplicity and seeming effortlessness."

Five Days at the Glace Bay Shore

Day One 

On this day
waves move like lovers
one trying to catch the other
rushing breathless toward to the palm of shore

They join in a tangled dance
a rapturous violence

churned and spun and toppled
upside down and around each other
watery limbs entwined and broken 

They become one. 

Day Two

At noon
two men get out of their truck
as casual as cats
descend the uneven, pathless rocks to water edge

These are not the people I expect to see
strolling shorelines:

Truck people
Men in caps

They are not poets or dreamers or lovers

The older one stops and bends
picks up something small
hunched over with his old back
examines it in his hand
and reaches it out for the other to see

The other
with his younger back and hands without callouses
leans in
(it is an unspoken rule on shores to stop and look at whatever your companion finds and extends to you)

I sit in my car watching
wanting to know what treasure he has found
wanting to join them
as casual as a cat
down on the shoreline

"Nice day! Whatcha got there?"  I could say.
And we could all become friends, eventually,
agree to meet tomorrow.
share our finds.
or a tuna sandwich.

But I am a voyeur
with a pen and a poem to write.

And maybe they are lovers, after all.

Day Three

On this shore 
a group of gulls take off
face the wind
hang in the air, defiant
pressing themselves against the invisible 
then turn and fly
behind the low cliffs

A small blue fishing boat
heads toward the smooth edge of the ocean
and I know it will disappear, as well

A speck swallowed by horizon 

Though the fishers will still feel more part of the world
than I.

Day Four

On this shore
juts a jigsaw of cliffs
counting years in the millions
their jagged face
lets you see what is not there

And I wonder how much
of that cliff wall is now sand

caught in an endless tumble at the cliff’s feet 
or gone out to sea
where it accounts for nothing

Day Five

How much time have I spent
watching things disappear?

Salt Water People

Salt-water people know
when the time has past
to say things the way they are.
We avoid the places
where we no longer exist
and times
when we no longer count.

And old words.

We fill the empty space around us with our faces,
pretzling our lips to smiles
that rearrange the lines around our closed mouths.

Once in awhile
I will go to the shore after first snow
when white winds whip up a fury of cold ,
before our skin has grown accustomed to days without sun,
and imagine how lonely the shore must feel
In winter.

Saltwater people
do not whisper in that wind
but yell instead
and let the wind
tear our words apart.
Olivia Macdonald


At night 
we are seeds
buried in the coal-black of sky
into something beautiful 
and strong
breaking through
the hard shell 
Each morning 
we unearth ourselves
reaching toward the light

Low Tide Days

It is a low tide day.
Words come gently
and linger;
ideas lap in low rumbling trots.

It is a day of slow strolls
and being still along the edge
without turning back.

Nothing old gets returned,
swept up and dropped at our feet.

The other side is that much closer;
we might even touch
on low tide days
like these.