{"id":2180,"date":"2012-07-13T00:10:34","date_gmt":"2012-07-13T04:10:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/?p=2180"},"modified":"2012-07-13T00:10:34","modified_gmt":"2012-07-13T04:10:34","slug":"stanley-plumly-lapsed-meadows","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/2012\/07\/13\/stanley-plumly-lapsed-meadows\/","title":{"rendered":"Stanley Plumly, “Lapsed Meadows”"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Stanley
\nphoto: Ron Hogan\/GalleyCat<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

Wild has its skills. the apple grew so close
\nto the ground it seemed the tree was thicket,
\ncrab, and root, and by fall would look like brush
\namong the burdock and the hawkweed, as if at heart
\nit had been cut and piled for burning.
\nAlong the edges, at the corners, like failed fence,
\nthe hawthorns, by comparison, seemed planted.
\nEverywhere else there was broom grass, timothy,
\nand wood fern, and sometimes a sapling,
\nsometimes a run of hazel; sometimes, depending,
\nfruit still green or grounded and rotting underfoot.
\nI remember, in Ohio, fields of wastes of nature,
\nlost pasture, fallow clearings, buckwheat
\nand fireweed and broken sparrow nests,
\nespecially in the summer, in the fading hilltop sun,
\nwhen you could lose yourself by simply lying down.
\nWho will find you, who will call you home now, at dusk,
\nwith the dry tips of the goldenrod confused”
\nwith a little wind, filling in for what’s left of the light?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Orphan Hours<\/i><\/a> is the eleventh book of poems by Stanley Plumly; I took this photo of him in 2008, after he’d just won the Los Angeles Times<\/i> Book Prize for Old Heart<\/i>. Other poems in this new collection include “Cancer<\/a> (originally published in The New Yorker<\/i>), “Afterward<\/a>” (Kenyon Review<\/i>), “Vesper Sparrow<\/a>” (The New Republic<\/i>), and “Verisimilitude<\/a>” (The Atlantic<\/i>). “Amidon Christmas Tree Farm Cardinal<\/a>” was originally published in The Atlantic<\/i> as “Cardinal.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

photo: Ron Hogan\/GalleyCat Wild has its skills. the apple grew so close to the ground it seemed the tree was thicket, crab, and root, and by fall would look like brush among the burdock and the hawkweed, as if at heart it had been cut and piled for burning. Along the edges, at the corners, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[385,384],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2180"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2180"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2180\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2184,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2180\/revisions\/2184"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2180"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2180"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/beatrice.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2180"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}