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      December 11, 2020The LackChard deNiord

      So I
      am feckless I
      admit,
      for I
      was born without
      sufficient feck,
      which is why
      I take a supplement
      of it,
      along with all
      my other pills
      and stuff,
      although it’s never quite
      enough.
      So I
      digress as a way
      to curse
      my dearth of feck,
      as if
      a prolegomenon or plot
      could plug the drain
      of my so-leaky self,
      and then
      an afterward as well,
      but no,
      not yet.
      I had a dream last night
      in which
      I was enough—
      blessed
      with a speck
      that tipped the scale
      to bliss;
      but lo,
      I couldn’t sleep
      for long and woke
      to what
      I felt was far
      too much and missed
      my old
      ironic want.
      So I confess,
      feck is more
      except
      when it is less.

      from #69 - Fall 2020

      Chard deNiord

      “I live on ten wild acres in Westminster West, Vermont, where my wife and I have planted two gardens. She paints and I write when we’re not gardening. I write because I have always had to since I was about fifteen. My two poems in this issue came to me one day while I was pulling weeds. For reasons that are just as mysterious as my need to write and date back to my days as a divinity student, I’ve always been intrigued by the paradox of fecklessness as an essential source for inspiration, as well as an antidote for boring perfection. With regard to the ‘flame’ in ‘The Mantle,’ I’m equally intrigued by the mystery of fire that feeds invisibly off the frailest material. I view it as a metaphor for writing poetry itself.”

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