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“I marvel at the lean agency of ships— tall sloops cutting the cold elegance of perfect silence while winds dim to a dead gleam. Some have heard my dogs, shallow in the hearts of them, sound a warning either too suddenly or too late, snakes touching all there is. You would think the sea was blind to me as I stare out, deaf to the dull pull of waters that promise, if not love, then love or nothing.”

—Heidy Steidlmayer, Scylla

“When the moon’s worn scutcheon touches the flint-gray flood, I will lave him in foxglove and vetch until the blood of his wretched heart heals. Without a scar, he stood— as the men make their way into the quaking wood.”

—Heidy Steidlmayer, “Grendel’s Mother”

Scree

I have seen the arrested
shrub inform the crag with grief.
Lichens crust the rocks with red.
Thorns punctuate the leaf.

Sorrow is not a desert
where one endures the other—
but footing lost and halting
step. And then another.


Heidy Steidlmayer

Scree

by Heidy Steidlmayer

I have seen the arrested
shrub inform the crag with grief.
Lichens crust the rocks with red.
Thorns punctuate the leaf.

Sorrow is not a desert
where one endures the other—
but footing lost and halting
step. And then another.

Scylla

I marvel at the lean
agency of ships—
tall sloops cutting
the cold elegance
of perfect silence
while winds dim
to a dead gleam.
Some have heard
my dogs, shallow in
the hearts of them,
sound a warning
either too suddenly
or too late, snakes
touching all there is.
You would think
the sea was blind
to me as I stare out,
deaf to the dull
pull of waters that
promise, if not love,
then love or nothing.

— heidy steidlmayer

Scylla | Heidy Steidlmayer

I marvel at the lean
agency of ships—
tall sloops cutting
the cold elegance
of perfect silence
while winds dim
to a dead gleam.
Some have heard
my dogs, shallow in
the hearts of them,
sound a warning
either too suddenly
or too late, snakes
touching all there is.
You would think
the sea was blind
to me as I stare out,
deaf to the dull
pull of waters that
promise, if not love,
then love or nothing.

Arrival
Heidy Steidlmayer

Midwinter, the crows take
their darkness out on day.
A thin rain falls and breaks.
I wonder at the way

the oaks unravel here
(and travel word of mouth)
another year.
Not going, I go south.

Grendel’s Mother, Heidy Steidlmayer

When the moon’s worn scutcheon

touches the flint-gray flood,

I will lave him in foxglove

and vetch until the blood

of his wretched heart heals.


Without a scar, he stood—


as the men make their way

into the quaking wood.

Fowling Piece

“Fowling Piece” by Heidy Steidlmayer

The pull of guns I understand,
my father taught me hand on hand
how death is. Life asserts.
(Best take it like a man.)

I shot a dove, the common sort
and mourned not life but life so short
that gazed from death as if unhurt.
And I had nothing to report. 

Scree

I have seen the arrested

shrub inform the crag with grief.

Lichens crust the rocks with red.

Thorns punctuate the leaf.

Sorrow is not a desert

where one endures the other—

but footing lost and halting

step. And then another.

 

- by Heidy Steidlmayer

The pull of guns I understand,

my father taught me hand on hand

how death is. Life asserts.

(Best take it like a man.)



I shot a dove, the common sort

and mourned not life but life so short

that gazed from death as if unhurt.

And I had nothing to report.



—Heidy Steidlmayer, “Fowling Piece”

midwinter, the crows take their darkness out on day.

a thin rain falls and breaks.
i wonder at the way

the oaks unravel here
(and travel word of mouth)
another year.
not going, i go south.

—arrival, heidy steidlmayer

Arrival

Midwinter, the crows take
their darkness out on day.
A thin rain falls and breaks.
I wonder at the way

the oaks unravel here
(and travel word of mouth)
another year.
Not going, I go south.

—Heidy Steidlmayer

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