Guest Poet Mark C. MacGregor


in the downed twig.
At last,
for something to be real,
joyfully unlisted
in the mind's endless catalog

I seem blinded by my sight,
and nothing,
come calling for its object, is fulfilled.
The Tigris of this autumn
and Euphrates of another sunrise, born

Behold, no beauty,
as across this sill of mourning, expectant,
the material moment,
this loving grey of wood, I might condense
to lie against,
passes through this ghost
into the past.

Is it then, only acceptance
of the right to simple pleasure?
Am I the raft, tossed,
or with a subtle shift
can I accommodate oceans?
In the human spirit
reach out,
and bring on board, everything,
saving myself

November 1997

Mark C. MacGregor's Questions:

I have been writing almost entirely insulated from feedback since graduating from college in 1975. I have been content with the pleasure of taking words out of the air and gradually filling in a picture of myself. Does my poetry go beyond individual pleasure though? I really don't know if the moments I feel I have created an image that shows my intention, rather than tells it, will travel. My question is as simple as, is this effective poetry? And if it is, at least a beginning, is its tone a little too formal? As if I were droning on to a drowsy congregation.

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The Albany Poetry Workshop