3 poems by John Brantingham

On the Edge of the Marsh

Ginny and her husband have a farm 
here at the edge of the marsh,

a place my grandfather, a dairyman all
 his life would have felt at home.

They have cows and grow corn, 
strawberries and asparagus, 

and they listen to great blue herons 
grawking to each other across the water.

I hear them too as I buy cucumbers
from Ginny’s cart, and I hear 

my grandfather, dead now 
60 years, talking and laughing.

The two of them speak of things 
beyond my understanding,

They speak the language of peace,
the language of things that make sense. 





Driving into Upstate after 45 Years Away

I wouldn’t have seen the cattails
on the edge of the marsh

except they were backlit 
by the purpling dawn.

I could hear my grandfather whisper
that I’d finally made it back home. 





Log in the Pond

A week ago, the turtles were still buried
in the mud at the bottom of the pond

waiting for the Earth to warm itself.
Today, they’re sunning themselves 

on their log, reborn to spring.
A week ago, I was out here 

thinking about jobs, relationships, 
and dreams I’ve fucked up, wishing

I could bury myself with them.
It’s better today, so I say goodbye 

to those people and those dreams.
I wasn’t good at those jobs anyway.

Across the pond, a turtle slips
under the sheen of the surface ripples.

I say goodbye to him too.

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John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been featured in hundreds of magazines. He has twenty-one books of poetry, memoir, and fiction including his latest, Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press) and Kitkitdizzi (Bamboo Dart Press). He lives in Jamestown, New York.

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