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The Way Here

The Way Here

Everywhere this poet invokes nature, speaks through nature, yet finds human encounter, inadequacy, and loss.  “What two people avoid in the dark could light the world.”  And throughout the traveling, his  soul speaks in some of the freshest lines I have seen in a long while, as if they had just washed up out of the sea itself onto our shores.  Of all our human eloquence, says the poet, eloquently:  “I prefer ciphers left by birds’ feet.” On The Way Here we are stopped by breathless moments of clarity and recognition, oases we might have thought were mirages. An inspired and inspiring book. 

— Helen Degen Cohen

There is a yearning for something more, perhaps only found in the art of poetry. In his poem, “Safe Passage,” the poet writes, “I want to live on water, fight the land lock of identity, travel from one sure ship to another…” Members of Chicago’s NewTown Writers have been fortunate over the years to travel with Marc as he read his work in our workshops. Now, with the publication of The Way Here, Marc’s poems will be available to a wider audience, as well they should be—one sure poem after another.

— Robert Klein Engler

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Two Sample poems

October in a Farmhouse

Hues of orange splinter at your feet.
The wheat has been sown.
The wheat has been reaped.

I have tethered myself to you—a golden sheaf.
Your eyes mount me like a monarch,
pin me to decision.

I feel this tugging to be rooted,
a tremor in my skeleton,
scraping on my spine,

an ebbing and a
flowing, heavy grapes
upon a vine.


Harvest

Late heat warms the broken earth.  
Russet and gold burnish fields of drying corn.  
The cow does not jump.  
The moon lows.  
Lights on combines late into night until beans, corn lie down—what matters removed from them.  
I fear this. 
I have haunted the sea with my intentions.  
I have waited like women with combs in their hair, their men at the bottom, hats floating.
Last color flashes: yellow, scarlet, orange mums.  
Sun on the finished field.  
The wind hurries.  
Geese fly into formation.  
Wild grasses fade.  
Nothing I say matters.  
The harvest moon is nearly always too late.  
What clouds tell me I keep to myself.  
What you have done, I whisper to the scattering crows.  
Have I prayed to the wrong god?  
What if you recover from your life?  
Your eyes: two chestnuts I worry like beads.  
Outside my window a few yellow-brown leaves hold on.  
Heads of kale talk to themselves.  
The script of the gods does not vary.  
What happens next is happening.  
How far can we reach now?  
Cotton ghosts trapped in the neighbor’s trees.