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      December 14, 2020The MantleChard deNiord

      catches the small blue flame that lights
      the room, then glows on high in the hiss of gas.
      A sheath of silk, it rounds the flame
      behind the lantern’s glass.
      It’s nothing and something when the flame expires
      like the gown of a ghost that’s gone inside.
      It’s a body that burns to a single ash
      but still ignites like an oil-soaked rag
      at the touch of a flame.

      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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