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Jared Schickling
I received a BA in 2006 from SUNY Buffalo, where I was a joint English and anthropology major. Hopefully at this time next year I'll be working on an MFA somewhere. My work has appeared in some journals and magazines, including
freefall, Borderlands: The Texas Poetry Review, Word For/Word, and The Cafe Review. Ending in 2004 I wrote a fiction column ("Folks") for NiagaraBuzz.com, an online press
focusing on political happenings in Niagara County (NY). I've also received some honorable mentions and awards in contests; most recently, a seven-part poem
"The Canal" won the KNOCK Ecoliterature/Green Art contest, which will be published in the journal's next issue.
over there
Over there, somewhere, in one of those nations
Who remembers the names of those nations
Or how to pronounce them
But over there, in one of those towns, someone
Who remembers the names of those towns
Or how to say them
One of those funny names, some rhythm containing affiliations
Who are they, what testimony in death’s
Shadow, like a deer, death prancing like a little deer
One day, a storm came
Breaking all the trees in half
An early winter was forecast
Power was gone for a week, and by night
All was so quiet. Strange muscles were discovered
In the cleanup, a buzzing of saws and chippers.
Half the food went to waste.
Burglaries increased somewhat.
But the newspaper kept coming.
Half of life was warm, over blue flame, fuzzy-eyed
Like stray cats, in the cushions, in winter
A number of people died. Resources were on their way.
to grandmother’s house
1.
O tale, wagging, for whom you would bend
is there nothing in the world that won’t
Will you follow us
along the paths through the woods, now that the way is the same
for to grandmother’s house we go
We want some companion, no mate
For the paths have been unmanned
but the gates have eyes, is it quiet now
Please—bring the map—
2.
Last time, there were sticks underfoot, you could hear them, they were not simple
3.
We will wander here
Wayfarers
Where the blood of the family is linked to the dirt
Hair
We are wanderers, extensions, barely sure
prior postscripts, feelers and inevitable, reporting back
4.
There are sticks underfoot. You can hear them.
Look: Once again
on the back of this neck, standing hair
Up ahead, there’s the clearing
Where she’s always baking something
we’re leaving tomorrow
copyright ©
Jared Schickling
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