LEMON HOUND

More Bite Than Bark Since 2005
How Poems Work
Michael Redhill on W.S. Merwin

Michael Redhill on W.S. Merwin

GATE BY W.S. MERWIN Once I came back to the leaves just as they were falling into the rattling of magpies and the waving flights through treetops beyond the long field tawny with stubble a scatter of sheep wandered there circling slowly as a galaxy ferrying the grey lights that were theirs wading into their...

Ken Babstock on John Degen

HOW POEMS WORK KEN BABSTOCK Reluctance BY JOHN DEGEN from the air, the city cloaks itself in nature, patchy, black-green forests and empty roads beyond the runway fence, the blood-brown metal capsules of abandoned turbo-props; curious long-limbed dogs watch us from a fuselage, bowing noses to their feet, eyes shifting to each other and back...
Nicholas Papaxanthos on Dean Young

Nicholas Papaxanthos on Dean Young

Dean Young’s Word Triplets We could say that there is a narrative to these three words: brick, blood-drop, red feather, which entails the passage from inert material to mortal flesh to a sort of avian/angelic possibility, or we could say that what holds those things together is their redness. I try to be alert to...
Michael Redhill on Margaret Avison

Michael Redhill on Margaret Avison

TWO POEMS BY MARGARET AVISON APRIL Dark like a handful of cool gray silk. Clocks strike the hour. Out in the clear-gleaming sky a robin's song, silence unravelling. The trees with tremulous-aching fingers shaping the quiet airflow. Sick-faint dark limp in the arms of the infinite. CROWD CORALLING Hard rain. the bean-mash smell. leaky tin-brim...
Lisa Robertson on John Clare

Lisa Robertson on John Clare

Emmonsail's Heath in Winter BY JOHN CLARE I love to see the old heath's withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling, While the old heron from the lonely lake Starts slow and flaps his melancholy wing, And oddling crow in idle motions swing On the half rotten ashtree's topmost twig, Beside whose...
Lisa Robertson on Denise Riley

Lisa Robertson on Denise Riley

Here is a clear fragment broken off from the perennial drama of girlhood, the vastness and vibration of summer air all around it. The waves sound their regular metre through the lines. The girls are the girls who walk with suppleness and wit through Sappho's fragments, through Ovid's changes, at once mythically impersonal and lapidary,...
Susannah M. Smith on Walter Benjamin

Susannah M. Smith on Walter Benjamin

Peering into Walter Benjamin's Archive I don't know you, WB. I don't know you at all. I'm thinking of the way people seem to hear about you serendipitously, repeatedly. I'm thinking of the leather suitcase that disappeared after you died, its contents alleged but never located: postcards, a manuscript, a pipe, morphine. You are gone...
Ken Babstock on Paul Muldoon

Ken Babstock on Paul Muldoon

HOW POEMS WORK KEN BABSTOCK   Hay By Paul Muldoon   This much I know. Just as I'm about to make that right turn off Province Line Road I meet another beat-up Volvo carrying a load   of hay. (More accurately, a bale of lucerne on the roof rack, a bale of lucerne or fescue...
Michael Redhill on Lisa Robertson

Michael Redhill on Lisa Robertson

Click on poem to advance. Monday -- From The Weather, New Star Books (2001) And poetry can also be sculpture, or at least more like sculpture than it's like conversation. Lisa Robertson's Monday , from her collection The Weather, is a poem that defies immediate analysis, although even the most perplexed reader will still be able to state a...
Lisa Robertson on Peter Culley

Lisa Robertson on Peter Culley

The Provisions BY PETER CULLEY Between the storms of October And the storms of March the deep, wide trench Of this afternoon, one of a series making up This temporal lapse, this interregnum In which we are involved. Ignorant as I am I hardly dare to speak of it, But the fabric of its projection...