Brass

I struck the sound that filled
the empty room,
and left alone
with only my own note,
a note that my own silence trilled
into the echoes of the time
and the burning place
that lay within
I fled the marge
with the motion
of a fire,
but faster gone.

 

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.

Fourth

by E.R. Hille

Out of the night something is born.
The living leaf holds no dew
And the hot air settles on the lake.
Something is born.  This imperious raffle
Of the mind is outlawed
And all about the night the firecrackers boom.

 

 

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to ensure that never happens.

Young couple dancing at VFW dance on occasion of Fourth of July celebration. Price, Carbon County, Utah. U.S. National Archives’ Local Identifier: 245-MS-532L. From:: Photographs of the Medical Survey of the Bituminous Coal Industry, compiled 1946 - 1947. Created By:: Department of the Interior. Solid Fuels Administration For War. (04/19/1943 - 06/30/1947) Production Date: 07/03/1946.

Variants

by E.R. Hille

From my father's house
of worn shingles and cobbles,
of lichen-stained granite
meeting the roof
through a maze of foliage,
I walked like a red-eyed ghost
with tatters trailing
in the sharp dust,
bled upon the sharp-leaved plants,
blown by salt wind.
The boundaries were drawn
upon my right hand
excluding the left;
a martial chord
muted a chorus
of orders blatantly flung
upon the cheek of the day,
a red and ignorant cherub.

All lines
that led away were cut
and trailed within my view.
Nothing was said
and communion was gorging—
the lamps were filled
with an incense
that hid the smell
of a rotten hulk of death.

Then I fled
from the lake,
and the quiet,
but there is still
a sun in my mind
and words with the spray:
they may still be there.

 

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to ensure that never happens.

The Low Water Fisherman

In this dark pond of superficiality,

Waters occasionally churned by the collapse

                 of some old tree,

Not far around the bend,

Not far behind the house,

Yet farther than one can see

The old man is dishing at the false bottom.

The escaping bubbles send

No warning. Depth is only a word

Where trees stir the murky waters

Constantly. But the dream fish

Seem to struggle at his bait.

 

 

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.

Perdido

And we are the lost in time,
Reading fates
     Spread on a shadow
No man can see
And blind destiny
     Will not allow tragedy

We have had a thousand
Lights spread there,
     And shades are drawn
And where we may be
They are not there to see
     Where wind runs by.

Where Water Runs

Where water runs,
Where the sea is flooded
By a little-less-than-undying stream
The waters run far below
But how little time there is
To dream and wonder
(And make yourself unhappy,
Disillusioned and afraid).
The waters run
Endlessly, (perhaps purposely)
As sorrows do
And must:
We must be stoic—
No. Failing, but resilient
But yet—with our eye on
The trite and conventional star.

                                   Published circa 1959.

Read more on the E.R. Hille Series here.
About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.

DAWN

It is dark now, in this cluttered room.
I am alone; the sea
breaks despairingly on rocks
as my soul is tossed, cut
and bleeding upon the rotted docks
of the world.
The only other
sound is the whine of a fan,
which has suddenly halted.
This seclusion is anonymous
as the twilight hour
that belongs to no one
quiet, compromising, baroque, and unsung.
But the silence is broken
by the song of a bird
in his element of inverted dark,
but it is not enough, for the door
yields a thousand rude alarms,
now the song gives heart;
I unfold a river of myself
and throw me in his arms.

                                   Published circa 1959.

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.