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Until the Full Moon Has Its Say
Until the Full Moon Has Its Say
Until the Full Moon Has Its Say
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Until the Full Moon Has Its Say

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The poems in Until the Full Moon Has Its Say were inspired by the loss of poet Conrad Hilberry’s wife of fifty-six years, Marion. While the poems in this volume delve into the initial emptiness and hopelessness of grieving, the poet’s connections to the natural world, music, and other people ultimately bring him back into the present while still acknowledging and honoring the past. The work of a skilled poet with a lifetime of experience, this collection displays Hilberry’s mastery of form. The book’s three sections include a sonnet, five villanelles, and a variety of stanza structures, all written in his signature tone, which is contemplative, tender, and moving.

The elegant poems of Until the Full Moon Has Its Say arise from the consideration of ordinary, even humble, subjects—a bowl on a table, a blackout, mosquitoes, garlic mustard, algae on the local pond. Hilberry’s relaxed voice is wise and measured even in the depths of grief, as he muses, “How can I draw dead branches / in a poem?” Part of the answer to that question lies in the use of form, which gives shape to experience. In his formal virtuosity, Hilberry even writes a villanelle—a notoriously difficult poetic form—about writing a villanelle.

Written by the poet in his eighties, Until the Full Moon Has Its Say is a powerful reflection on mortality and on the art that has been his lifelong practice. All readers of poetry will treasure this powerful volume.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 10, 2014
ISBN9780814340257
Until the Full Moon Has Its Say
Author

Conrad Hilberry

Conrad Hilberry is emeritus professor of English at Kalamazoo College and author of several books of poetry, including The Fingernail of Luck, Player Piano, and Sorting the Smoke, and co-editor of Contemporary Michigan Poetry: Poems from the Third Coast (Wayne State University Press, 1988).

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    Book preview

    Until the Full Moon Has Its Say - Conrad Hilberry

    Group.

    One

    April

    April takes down my love—

    wrong season for dying.

    Even the box elder,

    hunching into the clouds,

    is blooming, branching,

    leaving.

    She’s leaving,

    half-aware in the tilted bed,

    breath barely coming,

    then not. Jaws

    clamped around a scrap

    of tongue. Her warm body

    gone cooler, cold.

    Hospice to wash her.

    Two mortuary men.

    What had been touch

    and talk, ripe fruit,

    red wine:

    a stalk

    in a winter field.

    Villanelle for Marion

    My glass was empty then.

    Barmaid, lift the spigot, let it run.

    Still empty. Then a dark-haired one

    found me under some banyan

    tree, imagining love, alone.

    My glass was empty then.

    She knew the January sky, and June,

    had a touch to nudge the season—

    empty, full. I’ll take the dark-haired one.

    She knew the streets of Paris, London,

    hitchhiked south along the Seine,

    finding no glass empty then.

    We cooked up lunch in Madison,

    two-handled bowl of bluefin,

    noodles, peas—a savory one

    to feed the co-op. Found a path down

    to Lake Mendota, spring rain,

    swamp grass, no glass empty then—

    dipper full, the spring, a dark-haired one.

    Memory

    Everything that was—touch

    football in the street, Peggy

    McKay in the hay

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