Ossian sets down his harp
By the crag of the woods,
And his sheaf of songs
Beneath the strings, his shoes.
Turning to Malvina, he asks
The way: “I do not
Know this country,” he says.
Is there a moment
For the dog to find the stars
And point the way?
The songs scatter, the harp
Clatters, our chaotic noise
Begone by wind and tribunal.
She points west, to the hill,
And speculates the way is there,
Past the stones.
Nicholas Roberts is a 22-year old Boston-based poet. He draws from a number of inspirations, ranging from ancient Greek and Old English poetry, to 20th century poets such as W.H. Auden, William Carlos Williams, W.B. Yeats, and Jack Spicer.
Take ice from the freezer,
And crush it with the pestle
Chipped from doughy granite on
New Hampshire mountainsides.
Bate the patrons with sound
Of plunking ice shards growing
Against old Orleans bourbon shells.
Lists of regulars beneath a bar
Of brass engraved with lettuce-stalk.
Dead of Korea, dead of Vietnam,
Children’s memoirs from parent’s wine
Wound in woozy wedding tarps.
Teenagers sing heartburn songs,
And baltering down gin lemonade.
My name is Nicholas Roberts. I am a 22-year old Boston-based poet. I draw from a number of inspirations, ranging from ancient Greek and Old English poetry, to 20th century poets such as W.H. Auden, William Carlos Williams, W.B. Yeats, and Jack Spicer.