Robert Gibb


Winter Fires

i.

“THE CLINGING, FLAME
            THE ABYSMAL, WATER”—
Divination from today’s I Ching,
            The hexagram’s strata
Of broken lines running every-other-one
            From the bottom, fissured,
Foundation of the stack.
            Today above the river,
In the smoke of rain, that crow
            Was still hanging its tatters
In a roadside tree,
            Spread wings and slack head
Netted by the web of branches,
            Exhaust fumes staining
The panes of light. “Fire over water”—
            The IMAGE the gist
Of the hexagram. The bird
            As though broached on a spit.
 

            ii.

Rain in cold columns again today,
            The valley distances
Mist and drizzle and framed in gray
            As in a smoky pane.
“One must have a mind of winter,”
            The poet said,
To be indifferent to misery,
            The way the river is indifferent
Below us—gelid, leaden—
            Flowing west. This morning
I watched the satellite feed
            From Gaza where the sea’s
Been closed, the sky havocked
            With dust and the white fire
Of phosphorus.
            And from the West Bank:
Bulldozed olive groves where birds
            Once wove their nests.



from Winter Fires: New & Selected Poems (forthcoming from Green Linden Press)

photo: Janelle Bendycki

Robert Gibb is the author of fifteen full-length poetry collections, including The Origins of Evening, a National Poetry Series selection, and, most recently, Pittsburghese and Sightlines. He has been awarded two NEA Fellowships, a Best American Poetry Prize, a Pushcart Prize, and Prairie Schooner’s Glenna Luschei and Strousse Awards.

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