Dispatch #123

first poem of 2023

Friends, you’ve seen a few of these pieces in previous Dispatches, but I’ve sequenced them together with other pieces to make a singular work.

The formatting screwed up the first time I sent this. My apologies.

About the Latin title: “Directly translated, ‘lux brumalis’ means ‘the light of winter.’ There's no corresponding English word. However, everyone who has noticed the way light changes with the seasons can understand the beauty and usefulness of this term.”

I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and beginning of the new year.

Yours, in poetry,

Joseph

Lux Brumalis

i.

Lately, poetry
and prayer 
reconcile silence.

Collapsing 
into dawn, you see
how night lacked
nothing—darkness spoke.




ii.

Abbreviated 
days engrave
shadow into stone.




iii.

Red winter sunset—
even the pavement

in this vacant parking lot 
softens under the color.




iv.

Windblown snow in sun—
a friend’s voice
dissolving the ache.




v.

Gnarled limbs 
grapple air—
air made visible 

through undone 
columns of snow. 




vi.  

The inaudible
syllable—
half moon in daylight.




vii.

Brittle syllables,
bitter prayer, 

freezing air 
held in my palms

as if to translate
the nameless.




viii.

Over thinning snow
shadows of
dead flowers flail.