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 | "Touched By Its Rays" published this month Posted by Walter Donway on 2/03, 1:46pm | |
| Announcing Publication of Walter Donway's New Book of Poetry Touched By Its Rays, Walter Donway's new book of poetry, will be published in mid-February and available from www.objectivismstore.com. Touched By Its Rays is a publication of the Atlas Society; all income from its sale will go to support its work. Books can be ordered at a significant discount before February 15 by going to www.objectivismstore.com. The book will be published in a hardcover first edition that includes almost 40 poems, including two long narratives, “Empire of Earth” and “A Sense of Life,” and a verse play, Naked. Walter writes poetry within the enduring traditions of English and Americian poetry, the kind of poetry so many of us read and loved when we were growing up and going through school. Although he often writes about complex ideas and feelings, with resonant symbols and allusions, his style is never obscure or “difficult.” These are poems to read aloud and enjoy, to share, and to remember for their lyrical beauty and song. Atlas Society founder, David Kelley, has commented on the book: “Walter’s poems cover an astonishing range of subject matter, from love to politics, from parenthood to Hurricane Katrina. There are ballads of great deeds, reflections on moments of experience, wry observations on manners and mores. “I have my favorites, you will have yours. What the poems have in common is a distinctive blend of thought, feeling, and poetic skill, revealing how the discipline of meter and rhyme is made to serve a wonderfully free and creative imagination.” Following are a few poems or excerpts from Touched By Its Rays: In Cortona Another hill, another town upthrust As though this Tuscan earth must toss, must lie Unsleeping, twist and pull its bunching crust, Expose at last a bared hip to the sky; Another church, erected where streets cross, Bestride life's noon--rude, placid, assured that we, At last, at this sheer face, will own our loss Is utter and will beg for clemency: But now I know I cannot enter, here, Approach another altar notable For craftsmanship or lift my eyes to peer At arches (Roman, of local marble). I wave the others in, but wait; for me, No church abides behind this storied wall, No spirit haunts the treasured reliquary To soften ancient hurts the scenes recall. Could I for just an hour enter, know What shudder flung this weight at heaven's face And gathered all that labor could bestow-- Of beauty, hope, rejoicing--to this place? I turn at last to steps the Tuscan sky Has warmed, where children sit and face away To watch the crowds of tourists flock to buy Their fancies. I am happy for this day. How It Was I had forgotten how to write of love, Of hair as dark as clouds in May, or hair As yellow as the poets say; above, A face that is—what phrase?—ah, more than fair; And breasts so pert in pink that words go blind. All that once stopped me, stiff as Perseus Had he no trick of putting things behind. Yet, now it seems no more than youthful fuss About new models coming in '08: The contours great, how nice a drive would be! But then, amidst an evening's passionate, Preposterous chatter, you smiled at me Across a table, spoke your quiet thought; And anyhow brown hair, brown glasses, too, Like things that I had known, but long forgot, Were writing poems that I would give to you. Brief excerpt from A Sense of Life The morning light made glorious the studio's French doors that framed the black rock cliffs and sea. She turned to me. “Now take that off,” I said. “I want you nude.” She made no move. I waited, Then went to her and drew the belt. Her gaze Was on the sea. Nor did she move as gently I lifted the kimono open, back, Across her shoulders, let it fall. She bent, Took up the garment, held it out, frowned, Deliberately folded it just so And laid it on a chair. “Okay,” she said, So low I barely heard, and languidly, The slowness rendering her every step A frozen frame to linger in the mind, She walked around the studio. She paused Before each canvas as a woman dressed In evening wear might stroll a gallery. I snatched my pad and charcoal, sketching her In lines that curved and turned with her movements, Although I knew on canvas must be what Was in her face, was in her eyes; but no, Must be somehow the world that those eyes saw. Enough for Sunday Morning All slides along the tilting deck As reason's very stitching tears, What comes still shapeless in the fog; A time is coming for nightmares. Today, just sun on cobblestones, Fall friendly in the little street, Sweet sighing from the bakery, A bench outside, and one more seat. Above Tiananmen Square At first, we wonder why the square Appears deserted, knowing that scores Or more had fought and fallen there, And guess the camera has not shown The panicked faces glancing back To where one man now stands alone. The crowd may clamor with voices Of warning; but perhaps for him The moment passed for making choices. He stands like one arrayed in ranks To blunt the insensate lunge Of those preposterous tanks. Seeing but thin shoulders, askew With his incongruous bundles, Who can tell us if he knew That great deeds irritate our age, Which inters them in pearls of glory To spare us inconvenient rage? La Petit Mort “Come see this golden bird,” I said. You dried the pots, and essayed, then, To press against my back to look At where my golden bird had been. “Just listen, dear, what Keats writes here,” I called to you. And, yes, you came, After you phoned your sis and mom, But Keats somehow was not the same. I see now in the bathroom doorway Your beautiful nude silhouette, A still life framed forever there, Deliberate at your toilette. And over me has come a cool Blue stillness of the blood; I lie And muse that Plato celebrated This moment when the passions die. For you does time change nothing-- The real held forever bright In heaven's static radiance, As still as deer surprised by light? Or do we live from pulse to pulse, Persisting in synaptic blips That blend as in a motor's hum That tickles on the fingertips? It is the self lives pulse to pulse-- And living, knows that life goes by; And I descry, in moments missed, A being left alone to die. By purchasing this book now, at www.objectivismstore.com, you will save 20 percent and make a contribution to the work of the Atlas Society. For more, check the new Web site, www.TouchedByItsRays.com | ||
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