These three poems by Greg Hill converge on a dreamer’s interiority in sundry spaces: a placid wood, a poetry reading, and in the first, relatively safe, moments after peril or trauma. In revealing, the persona embraces divergent emotions, but left unanswered is whether the one speaking is sharing, or alone…
by: Greg Hill
Together And what I dream is a path enlightened, a day growing sweeter, aura of yarrow and petrichor — gnarled limbs of kalmia, blooms soft to touch, memories we earn — the trail wide enough for you and me — we savor the length of this wandering — admire morning warmed branches, like antlers, from sturdy trunks of oak lining the route — cradling precious buds swaying — to diverting refrains, birdsongs guiding our way —
While You Read Your Poem This chair is astonishingly uncomfortable. The overhead lights hum dissonantly. A lozenge unwrapped from its crisp cellophane twists a moment into tarmac time of delayed departure. My own leather bound notebook sweating one hand or another, my thoughts flit, unencumbered by form or physics, from smudge to smudge, wisp to wisp, moving between formlessness and shape— an updated to-do list, a reaction to celebrity news, the faces of family I will see soon as this conference concludes. I always do this at poetry readings, feel so strongly the turbulence of one well-quipped line, its arrival popping in my ear drums, I miss the connection you make in the next stanza, again, I promise to forgive myself for losing the flight path of your poem. When my brain hums I love you you can’t hear it, of course. You’re piloting all of us in attendance, attentive or not, to the terminal stanza of your poem, landing at just the right angle on your culminating description of lights in the city in the distance: dendrites dancing with the thoughts we don’t even know we have yet.
On the New Shore I crawled up the beach, draggled, sore, nothing making me feel secure. Even when panic passed, something inside recalled all I’d lost, endured, escaped. Looking back again across those dark waters still frightens me.
Greg Hill is a poet who appreciates experimenting with form, and is also an adjunct professor of English in West Hartford, Connecticut. His work has appeared in Otoliths, Grand Little Things, Blasted Tree, Pioneertown, and elsewhere, and he earned his MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. In the free time afforded to a father of three young children, he composes experimental music using cryptographic constraints. Twitter: @PrimeArepo. Website: https://www.