Rose & Thorn Journal - Fall 2011
W.F. Lantry, a native of San Diego, received his Licence and Maîtrise from L’Université de Nice, M.A. in English from Boston University, and PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Houston. In 2010 he won the Lindberg Foundation International Poetry for Peace Prize (in Israel), Crucible Poetry Prize, CutBank Patricia Goedicke Prize and the Birmingham-Southern College National Hackney Literary Award in Poetry. His work has appeared in The Wallace Stevens Journal, Gulf Coast and Aesthetica. His chapbook, The Language of Birds, is available from Finishing Line Press. He currently works in Washington, D.C., and is a contributing editor of Umbrella Journal. Visit him at wflantry.com.
W. F. Lantry
Rosarian
If roses can be said to burn, my hands
are glowing with damask. Or if we say
the wind can turn our faces suddenly,
this ragged beard is spinning. In your words
a thousand faceless acts are pardoned. When
my spirit turns again, I'll be condemned.
Thus our late chroniclers conceived this time.
I'm counting seconds, as if certain years
combine, to make up something measured. If
we study closely what we cannot say
we find our time's not silent. Moments turn
to actions, and if we could reconstruct
our condemnations or our pardons, then
as now, we might experience this pain:
a savage gale whips damask torches, and
their flames illuminate my face tonight
just when I thought I'd measured fire and light
or knew what roses grew within my beds.
Rosarian
If roses can be said to burn, my hands
are glowing with damask. Or if we say
the wind can turn our faces suddenly,
this ragged beard is spinning. In your words
a thousand faceless acts are pardoned. When
my spirit turns again, I'll be condemned.
Thus our late chroniclers conceived this time.
I'm counting seconds, as if certain years
combine, to make up something measured. If
we study closely what we cannot say
we find our time's not silent. Moments turn
to actions, and if we could reconstruct
our condemnations or our pardons, then
as now, we might experience this pain:
a savage gale whips damask torches, and
their flames illuminate my face tonight
just when I thought I'd measured fire and light
or knew what roses grew within my beds.
