Poem
Adam Wyeth
Oxbow Lake
Oxbow Lake
Oxbow Lake
From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay,Maurice Scully inscribed in his book
of poetry to me. Because I caught
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
in one of his poems. We got
talking—how we both went to Lesotho:
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
And we ran through places
we visited there, like a river snaking down
the mountains, till our paths
criss-crossed here—converging
like an oxbow lake. From The Kingdom in the Sky
to the People’s Republic of Cork
below the sea. And under his signature
X marked the spot to me.
X marked the spot to me
below the sea, and under his signature,
to the People’s Republic of Cork.
Like an oxbow lake from The Kingdom in the Sky,
criss-crossed here—converging
the mountains. Till our paths
we visited there, like a river snaking down.
And we ran through places,
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
Talking—how we both went to Lesotho
in one of his poems. We got
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
of poetry to me. Because I caught
Maurice Scully—inscribed in his book,
From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay.
© 2010, Adam Wyeth
From: Landing Places: Immigrant Poets in Ireland
Publisher: Dedalus Press, Dublin
From: Landing Places: Immigrant Poets in Ireland
Publisher: Dedalus Press, Dublin
Poems
Poems of Adam Wyeth
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Oxbow Lake
From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay,Maurice Scully inscribed in his book
of poetry to me. Because I caught
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
in one of his poems. We got
talking—how we both went to Lesotho:
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
And we ran through places
we visited there, like a river snaking down
the mountains, till our paths
criss-crossed here—converging
like an oxbow lake. From The Kingdom in the Sky
to the People’s Republic of Cork
below the sea. And under his signature
X marked the spot to me.
X marked the spot to me
below the sea, and under his signature,
to the People’s Republic of Cork.
Like an oxbow lake from The Kingdom in the Sky,
criss-crossed here—converging
the mountains. Till our paths
we visited there, like a river snaking down.
And we ran through places,
seeking adventure, growing our hair.
Talking—how we both went to Lesotho
in one of his poems. We got
wind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
of poetry to me. Because I caught
Maurice Scully—inscribed in his book,
From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay.
From: Landing Places: Immigrant Poets in Ireland
Oxbow Lake
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