‘Nothing but the whine of bad mud…’ (Carolyn Forché)
Aside from the luminous poetry, one of the things that cinched it for me with these two was the presence of mud in each of them. Here’s a taster of Forché’s ‘Year at Mudstraw’ poem from Gathering the Tribes.
‘Nothing but the whine of bad mud / between the cabin logs. / I hum Cold Blew The Bliss / to the child, touch fattened dough. / I wait for the sound of his truck / hoeing a splutter of thawed ditch.’