Scarecrow Visits a Wheatfield in Auvers

The corvids claim he was a crow. A man,
but still a crow, who knew the faith of grain
and light, the atomic distinction
between stillness and the wind’s first
flutter, the shape of loneliness and dark
skies parted by song and wing. He was
a vanishing point, and all-seeing eye.
Or, perhaps, dare I say, one of my kind,
separated from his base, destined
to observe, to record in bold,
thick strokes the hues that words
can only negate. In each of his fields,
celebration blossoms. We see what lurks
beneath the surface—that boy
walking outside the frame, a cat
behind the church—conversation
beyond speech. And in the sky, our sky,
crows suspended in directionless glory,
flying to and from, in simplicity, black
on blue and gold, above the wheat, without end.

This poem is special to me, as it represents success, such as that exists in the poetry world, on multiple levels. I wrote it as part of a fundraiser for Brick Street Poetry, a local non-profit poetry organization, and I am in great debt to Kerfe Roig for providing the inspiration, and original title, “Scarecrow Visits Van Gogh’s Wheatfield in Auvers.” The poem popped out, rather magically, almost as you see it here, in perhaps an hour. Then a few months later, a miracle happened—it was accepted for publication in The Threepenny Review, one of my white whales, an unattainable, if ever there was. Threepenny is known for quick responses. My previous two submissions were rejected in one day and two days. I expected the same for this, and was pleasantly surprised to make it to day three. And then I received the acceptance! Eight months later it appeared in print, nestled next to a story by Wendell Berry (!), and among works by Charles Simic and Philip Lopate, among others. I am still pinching myself…