[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Andrea Moorhead – Issue.XXXII : September 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]the experienced and familiar words…[/ultimate_heading]

Andrea Moorhead, born in Buffalo, New York, in 1947. Editor of Osiris and translator of contemporary Francophone poetry, Moorhead publishes in French and in English. Her work has appeared in journals such as Abraxas, The Bitter Oleander, Estuaire, and Indefinite Space. Poetry collections include From a Grove of Aspen (University of Salzburg Press), Géocide and À l’ombre de ta voix (Le Noroît). Translations include The Edges of Light (Hélène Dorion, Guernica Editions), Night Watch (Abderrahmane Djelfaoui, Red Dragonfly Press), and Dark Menagerie (Élise Turcotte, Guernica Editions). In 2017, Red Dragonfly Press will publish The Carver’s Dream.


The Inner Atmosphere


There’s a hole in the heart

a pinprick of light

admitting air from the outside

from beyond the body

or even beneath the ground

where the sun has burrowed

made a leaf-lined nest

blazing under the roots



At the dam


Sitting beside fire, earth, air, and water

sheets of paper, ink, pencils

trying to move the forms into agreement

without staining hands, lips, eyes straining

into the clarity assumed

the bridge arching over the river

others are swimming fast

lying on the cold flat rocks

an iPhone chattering, clicking,

sweeping the scene

moving above fire, earth, air, and water

sheets of paper, ink, pencils

the gestures wavering in the still

dark heat.



In the darkness


the green burning

light under the stars

you are walking

in the darkness

along the river

fantasies of far fields

snowing under your bones

in the tight spaces remaining

when fires have taken the rain

and the crest of the autumn moon

glows in the shape of inverted stars

following the seeds scattered

the dried grasses left to burn

when wind cuts the day

and leaves the snow under forgotten dreams

in a far-snowing field.

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