When Shelly Harder volunteered to help with our internet work, I had no idea about her poetry. For all I knew she wasn't into it. In fact I knew very little about her when we first talked except that, as became obvious very quickly, her fingers on her Mac seemed to be on some kind of high-speed cruise control. And her mind even moreso.
When I mentioned Shelly to Kevin Heslop the next day, it turned out he knew her from Eng. Lit at Western. He said she was a good poet. Well, he didn't use the word "good". Of course, he being a good poet himself, he wouldn't. I think he said "raw". But anyway, he had me waiting for my first glimpse. And now I can share it with you. Here's the first entry on her blog. S.B.
lunch break
Here a space, hidden cavern receding from underneath the sliding skin of marching, second-ticked moments, tickled present dotted down the stretching line of time-spanned day.
There is a second in every day that, found, can never be quantified and lost, can never be discovered by those prowling, precise watch-fiends.
I have searched in the dells and behind the trees of Brescia hill: here is a labyrinth-bathed tree from up whose gorgeously-mottled trunk falls diffuse illumination.
There is a second in every day blooming into a vastness beyond day.
Fall off the path of accustomed treadings.
Forsake known ways.
Wander into gemmed grasses.
Shelly Harder's bio.
When I mentioned Shelly to Kevin Heslop the next day, it turned out he knew her from Eng. Lit at Western. He said she was a good poet. Well, he didn't use the word "good". Of course, he being a good poet himself, he wouldn't. I think he said "raw". But anyway, he had me waiting for my first glimpse. And now I can share it with you. Here's the first entry on her blog. S.B.
lunch break
Here a space, hidden cavern receding from underneath the sliding skin of marching, second-ticked moments, tickled present dotted down the stretching line of time-spanned day.
There is a second in every day that, found, can never be quantified and lost, can never be discovered by those prowling, precise watch-fiends.
I have searched in the dells and behind the trees of Brescia hill: here is a labyrinth-bathed tree from up whose gorgeously-mottled trunk falls diffuse illumination.
There is a second in every day blooming into a vastness beyond day.
Fall off the path of accustomed treadings.
Forsake known ways.
Wander into gemmed grasses.
Shelly Harder's bio.
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