Orphan Hours: Poems

Fiction & Literature, Poetry, American
Cover of the book Orphan Hours: Poems by Stanley Plumly, W. W. Norton & Company
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Author: Stanley Plumly ISBN: 9780393239201
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company Publication: June 4, 2012
Imprint: W. W. Norton & Company Language: English
Author: Stanley Plumly
ISBN: 9780393239201
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Publication: June 4, 2012
Imprint: W. W. Norton & Company
Language: English

A luminous new volume from a National Book Award finalist and recipient of the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.

Orphan Hours is a book of reconciliation, of coming to terms with time in its most personal and memorable manifestations, and of learning the wisdom of what cannot be changed. The urgency of the elegy has been absorbed by an acceptance of the detail, texture, and small moments that constitute and enrich mortality.

from “Lapsed Meadow"

I remember, in Ohio, fields of wastes of nature,
lost pasture, fallow clearings, buckwheat
and fireweed and broken sparrow nests,
especially in the summer, in the fading hilltop sun,
when you could lose yourself by simply lying down.
Who will find you, who will call you home now, at dusk,
with the dry tips of the goldenrod confused
with a little wind, filling in what’s left of the light.

View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart

A luminous new volume from a National Book Award finalist and recipient of the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.

Orphan Hours is a book of reconciliation, of coming to terms with time in its most personal and memorable manifestations, and of learning the wisdom of what cannot be changed. The urgency of the elegy has been absorbed by an acceptance of the detail, texture, and small moments that constitute and enrich mortality.

from “Lapsed Meadow"

I remember, in Ohio, fields of wastes of nature,
lost pasture, fallow clearings, buckwheat
and fireweed and broken sparrow nests,
especially in the summer, in the fading hilltop sun,
when you could lose yourself by simply lying down.
Who will find you, who will call you home now, at dusk,
with the dry tips of the goldenrod confused
with a little wind, filling in what’s left of the light.

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