Fred Marchant

Poet and translator, workshop teacher, and manuscript consultation

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Bristlecone

 

Sometimes a tree will be there
when you need it most, when
you realize that you’ve been
breathing too long in the high,
 
thinned out air. Maybe you’ve
staggered, tripped on a rock
you warned yourself about,
but tripped on anyway. Marmots
 
may be signaling your coming,
and you could answer with your
own set of clicks and whistles,
but all this would only deepen
 
the dizziness, the spin of nausea,
the dread combining with delight
at reaching the rim of the canyon.
Below, the rock shapes waver,
 
and you are not the first to think
they look like the dead. You want
to run after them, to tug and plead.
The feeling as it rises has its own
 
strong winds. You know that
lightning and rain will be coming.
You stand in one of the eroded
places seeking out that tree.
 
 

Fred Marchant's signature

from Tipping Point

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Poems

The Looking House, poem and photo by Fred MarchantThe Looking House Stanza
A Place at the Table, poem by Fred Marchant. Photo by Stefi RubinA Place at the Table
Olive Harvest, poem by Fred MarchantOlive Harvest
St. John's Point, photo and poem by Fred MarchantSt. John’s Point
Migrants, poem and photo by Fred MarchantThe Migrants
Fred Marchant, reading for Warrior WritersTipping Point
Fred Marchant reads at the Fine Arts Work Center. Photo by Stefi RubinThe Return
The Salt Stronger, poem and photo by Fred MarchantThe Salt Stronger
Bristlecone, poem by Fred MarchantBristlecone

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Copyright © 2019 Fred Marchant · created by Present Tense

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