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May 14, 2004

Page history last edited by Arabella Napier 15 years, 4 months ago

 

 

 

       

 

 

 

Triphammer Bridge

 

I wonder what to mean by sanctuary, if a real or

apprehended place, as of a bell rung in a gold

surround, or as of silver roads along the beaches

of clouds seas don’t break or black mountains

overspill; jail: ice here’s shapelier than anything,

on the eaves massive, jawed along gorge ledges, solid

in the plastic blue boat fall left water in: if I

think the bitterest thing I can think of that seems like

reality, slickened back, hard, shocked by rip-high wind:

sanctuary, sanctuary, I say it over and over and the

word’s sound is the one place to dwell: that’s it, just

the sound, and the imagination of the sound—a place.

                            A. R. Ammons

 

Join us in a discussion of this poem with Stegner Fellow and poet Emily Rosko

Friday, May 14th – 4pm in the main lounge

 

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