Poetryby Christopher Kobylinsky
The Horse Behind Barbed Wire
Driving home from work I spotted
A poker-faced gelding standing
Motionless by the road behind
Thin, pale, lifeless steel barbed-wire
Entangled with bare, sinuous
Bush and bramble. I don’t know what
Caused me pause. The riderless saddle
Burdened upon his back? The brown
Leather chafed dull from the blue-jeaned
Weight of mankind. Could it have been
The pale sore below his rippling
Rib cage, pocked and suppurated
By the spur’s ceaseless insistence?
Maybe it was the bridle strapped
Across his long face, as if to
Hinder him from munching on the
Winter-burnt grass. But perhaps it
Was that he just looked straight ahead,
His empty eyes overcast with
As if he were lost in a
Reverie of feral dreams
Revelations of the Chanterelle
Counting Autumn’s ruddy liver spots
Freckled upon the hairs of the meadow-bier,
I came upon a troupe of golden chanterelles,
Their trumpet horns pointing heavenward
For the dawdling clouds to hear.
What requiem they bellowed I could not tell.
So placing a curious ear upon the topmost tier,
My body oozing through the damp of the dew,
I listened for the earth’s reverberating groans
Of Demeter’s harvested grief of one so dear.
But what it was that I did hear–
A dirge, a hymn, the babble of a seer–
I do not know, only that I was inhearsed
Within the cool grass as squirrels rustled over the boughs
Fervidly collecting hickory nuts against their winter fears.
Chris Kobylinsky is studying English literature as a graduate student and working as a teaching assistant at Western Connecticut State University. He has been a writer of prose, poetry, and poppycock for as long as he can remember. His writing is not only inspired by his many literary heroes—such as Shakespeare, Homer, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, and Gerard Manley Hopkins—it is also inspired by the rustic pastures, the stone wall–laced willowwacks, and the abandoned silos of New England. Chris has recently completed his first young adult novel.