“Another Week Begins” by Stephen Page

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Another Week Begins

By Stephen Page

When Jonathan turns off the highway the mud

in the road is a foot deep.  He clicks his vehicle

into 4-wheel drive and creeps forward in first gear

so not to slide into one of the ditches.  The white gates

of his ranch are open, El Misionero standing next

them.  He rolls his window down and sighs.  The air

smells green.  Green.  Green.

He drives to his office and talks with his capataz,

then they climb in the ranch pickup to go see a calf

cadaver.  It was born early that morning with a curled-

neck deformity, and unable to reach its mother’s tit

or the water trough, it just stumbled around awhile and fell

on its side.  The gauchos had skinned it and the vultures picked

it mostly clean, the eyes plucked out, the tongue sliced in half,

bits of intestine lying next to the spine, the heart and lungs mush

under the gristly ribs.

They drive to the Yellow House casco to see a pony cadaver.

Apparently, last night it leaped the fence around the

swimming pool and fell in the water. It lay on its side

on the grass where the yardkeeper placed it, its legs

stiff in the curled positions of swimming, yellow froth

tubed out of its nostrils.  It was only three-weeks old.

Jonathan goes for a long walk, alone—he admires

the greening grass, the knee-high wheat, the sprouting corn,

the blooming chamomile, the calves and ponies leaping about

pastures spotted white with egrets.

He hears bees buzzing, mockingbirds singing—

and he keeps walking, walking; walking

past the pastures, past the Wood,

until he enters a fallow field.

As he approaches a small marsh

a flock of black ibis lift

and cloud away.

*this poem first published on madswirl


Editor’s note:

Like any week, we walk through cadavers to stand free. – mh clay

on Mad Swirl Another Week Begins

I wanted to title this “Monday, Monday,” but that sounded so familiar as to have already been used.

Fauna by Stephen Page 

Fauna by Stephen Page


Fauna is absent from the wood of late,

I cannot see her from my treestump—

She has lit to trees and burrowed underground

Escaping the face of four-legged Helios.
Cynthia came to me in my tower—

She wore a diadem and sheer short robe

And while I lay naked on my carpet

She straddled me with her sandaled calves.



Rosemary outside my matera window

Scents the sough of Delphi’s cloud

Buzzed northerly by the bumblebee

Brandishing his long red clover tongue.



Diana was once a lover of mine

That flew with me to California

And shotgunned in my rusty Volkswagen

But did not vacate my New York studio.



After four long years of living with Helen

And never touching barefoot Delos

Artemis leaned over fresh cut grass

With sunburnt face and parchment lips.



Published on #NorthOfOxford #helios #fauna #delphi #rosemary #diana #helen #helena #delos #artemis

My Re-edification

  Synesthesia Journal

My Re-edification
by S. M. Page

here they do not honor absent-mindedness,
forgive forgetfulness,
admire the deep-in-thought academic.
here, there is no Professor of Ranch
no Dean of Land.

my degrees hang up on an unviewed wall.

here, there is only the count
and how much the workers can uncount
without notice.

S. M. Page is from Detroit, Michigan. He is the author of The Timbre of Sand and Still Dandelions. He holds two AA’s from Palomar College, a BA from Columbia University and an MFA from Bennington College. His critical essays have appeared regularly in the Buenos Aires Herald and the Fox Chase Review. He is the recipient of The Jess Cloud Memorial Prize, a Writer-in-Residence from the Montana Artists Refuge, a Full Fellowship from the Vermont Studio Center, an Imagination Grant from Cleveland State University, and an Arvon Foundation Ltd. Grant. He loves his wife, travel, family, and friends.


The Day a Rabbit Fell Out of a Tree and Distant Trees

Two poems by Stephen Page on #BurningWord http://burningword.com/2011/01/stephen-page-poems/ #ranching #nature #SaveThePlanet

#poems #ranching #nature

The Day a Rabbit Fell Out of a Tree

In Lot 30,

next to the Corn Lot,

I started shooting parrots

out of a eucalyptus.

I hit one on my first shot—

it crashed

through the branches

and thudded

head first on the ground.


Then, behind me,

I heard a flapping of wings

and turned around quickly

only to see a rabbit

fall out of another tree

and thump listlessly upon a root

sticking up from the base of the trunk.


How strange.

Was this a sign?

If I were Roman,  Trojan, or Greek,

I am sure I would believe so.


I examined the rabbit.

It was limp and still warm

but there was no blood,

only a long slash

like a talon might make

on its side,

its muscles and ribs exposed.


Now, either a hawk dropped it,

frightened by my shotgun blast,

or Diana was playing with me.


Distant Trees

“I don’t understand why distance

must be measured in nonnegative



The thicker part of the Wood

Has been cut

And becomes thicker still.


“If I face north,

distance to the south

is behind me.”


Every trunk branches

Ten times, and each branch becomes a tree,

Even though painted with herbicide and oil.


“Which way to Hope Ranch?”

“Oh you go back the way you came.

Ten kilometers.”


Post Maker lied.

The Bad Wood has returned.

Worse and without trails.


“Yesterday I walked all the way

to the Wood from my ranchhouse:  3 kilometers,

then back again: 6 kilometers in total

(or is that zero since I walked back

on the reverse azimuth?)

Yesterday I walked to the Wood.

Yesterday I walked back.

Yesterday I walked.



I want to return to the Wood,

To the way it was.





The Timbre of Sand by Stephen Page

The Timbre of Sand, by Stephen Page

with reviews, comments, and links below

Book Cover

Front Cover Photo Timbre
Book jacket cover design

timbre of sand comments
Reader Comments
The Timbre of Sand Back Cover comments
The Timbre of Sand Back Cover comments
Columbia Spectator comments The Timbre Of Sand


Links to buy Timbre:

PaperBack Swap


Amazon 2


The Timbre of Sand

By Stephen Page

 further comments

“The poet chooses to make the sonnet form contemporary and succeeds in creating a powerful and distinctive music . . . Keats-like in the sensuous attention to language and its cadences, The Timbre of Sand adds to our consciousness of the world and nourishes us in the process. With his first book, Page makes an impressive debut that deserves an enthusiastic audience.”

                                                      —–Colette Inez – author of Clemency and Naming the Moons

“He is able to take a microcosm and create a universe . . . I find his ear for language the caliber of some of the finest poets.”

—–Ernesto Sabato – author of On Heroes and Tombs and The Tunnel

“His poetry is distinguished.”

—–Raymond Kennedy – author of The Bitterest Age and Lulu Incognito

“It is as good and as stylish as any I have read in Atlantic Monthly or the New Yorker. Steve will only continue to grow in his craft. He is a writer of unusual promise.”

—–Leonard G. Shurtleff – writer for The Economist

Page should be applauded. It is always of interest to see how today’s poets approach strong measures, and the quantity of his one straight shot is impressive, not to mention quite good quality. It definitely makes for a very nice song.

—–Shaadi Khoury – The New York Spectacle

“Full of science, philosophy, mathematics, and meter.”

—-Jennifer Chris – The Detroit Chronicle


“In The Local News” by Stephen Page

In The Local News by Stephen Page as published on madswirl

read here: In The Local News

Santa Ana Ranch Office

mad swirl Poetry Forum header

Jonathan and Dominic

“Pacman” by Stephen Page


“Paman” by Stephen Page, as published on Hinchas de Poesia with Yago Cura as editor.