#mark vinz

[considerthehairpinturn]

things i’ve thinking about lately

cy twombly, fifty days at iliam / anne carson, autobiography of red / marguerite yourcenar, memoirs of hadrian / enjolras and le cabuc, cannot find artist / jay deshpande, jenner, CA / mark vinz, a harvest / donna tartt, the goldfinch / hanif abdurraqib, … for this jukebox to not have any springsteen / barnett newman, lace curtain for mayor daley

[the-final-sentence]

Past the sagging, empty porches locked up tight to travelers’ stares, toward the great dark of the fields, your headlights startle a flock of old love letters—still undelivered, enroute for years.

Mark Vinz, from “Driving Through”

[ukdamo]

Driving Through

Mark Vinz

This could be the town you’re from, marked only by what it’s near. The gas station man speaks of weather and the high school football team just as you knew he would— kind to strangers, happy to live here.

Tell yourself it doesn’t matter now, you’re only driving through. Past the sagging, empty porches locked up tight to travellers’ stares, toward the great dark of the fields, your headlights startle a flock of old love letters—still undelivered, enroute for years.

[considerthehairpinturn]

a matter of angels, mark vinz, 1983

[themirrorofink]

Words: A Necessary Solitude by Mark Vinz

Wood Engraving and Printing: Gaylord Schanilec

[man-reading]

Driving Through

BY MARK VINZ

This could be the town you’re from, marked only by what it’s near. The gas station man speaks of weather and the high school football team just as you knew he would— kind to strangers, happy to live here. Tell yourself it doesn’t matter now, you’re only driving through. Past the sagging, empty porches locked up tight to travelers’ stares, toward the great dark of the fields, your headlights startle a flock of old love letters—still undelivered, enroute for years. (source: poetryfoundation.org)

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Driving Through --Mark Vinz

This could be the town you’re from, marked only by what it’s near. The gas station man speaks of weather and the high school football team just as you knew he would— kind to strangers, happy to live here.

Tell yourself it doesn’t matter now, you’re only driving through. Past the sagging, empty porches locked up tight to travelers’ stares, toward the great dark of the fields, your headlights startle a flock of old love letters—still undelivered, enroute for years.

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Cautionary Tales --Mark Vinz

Beyond the field of grazing, gazing cows the great bull has a pasture to himself, monumental, black flanks barely twitching from the swarming flies. Only a few strands of wire separate us—how could I forget my childhood terror, the grownups warning that the old bull near my uncle’s farm would love to chase me, stomp me, gore me if I ever got too close. And so I skirted acres just to keep my distance, peeking through the leaves to see if he still was watching me, waiting for some foolish move— those fierce red eyes, the thunder in the ground— or maybe that was simply nightmares. It’s getting hard to tell, as years themselves keep gaining ground relentlessly, their hot breath on my back, and not a fence in sight.