Current Poets - Archive - Subscribe - Links - The Editors
Tim Houghton
About Poet
Timothy Houghton's recent book, Drop Light (his fourth), appeared in 2005 from Orchises Press. Positive reviews of this book have appeared in such magazines as Chelsea and The Literary Review. He has received over 20 fellowships to work on his poetry from such organizations as Yaddo, Hawthornden Castle International Retreat, and The MacDowell Colony. His poems have appeared in over 50 national and itnernational journals, including Chelsea, Quarterly West, Malahat Review, and Stand. For years he has led birdwatching hikes for Audubon.

The Healthy Those who don't dwell
have a way about them. They're funny and walk like wings
into the winds. Dwell means clay in the brain,
the past changing shapes with too much thinking -
to get it right. At fever-house
the weathervane is rusted into place

but the chimney sways in a dream -
all those heat waves
and drifting smoke.

Hailed by the hand stuck waving from optimism,
the healthy jut their chins into circumstance - persistent

punch-drunk fighters who can't say enough, who don't hear
the bell. They keep going all the way to repeat

on the boom box -
they throw their memories into the feast
after the funeral

when a liquored relation breaks a glass while dancing.
Isn't he funny! Isn't he the road back to work.


Ice Elf

Where a foot-high helper
spent the night
sleeping -

there's a compression and
voice of mine

partly buried in powder snow:

a quartz-like tower beside the wall
where pipe vents furnace.

One night my son
recreates it,

shaping air without precision
before the fireplace, but I see it,

the ice elf in his manic hands. He believes me
when I tell him
it doesn't leave tracks
when the body runs away.

His small hands are God, his talk behind them is God.
This immortality will live two more years,

maybe three. Yet I believe too, angry
with innocence and angry at it.


I live in a family tightly packed
within a living room of worn furniture.

We watch TV at night. We sit in the air of light bulbs
and enjoy our smiles.

The hippie Christ adds dimension above the fireplace
with His soft beige shirt.


Late Afternoon at Kolac's
the Sun is Remade

Drink tall beer and spill it
dripping from your chin, shining

on polyester -
and dump sugar into the coffee. Glare

on the window is band-light,
and notes kicked up from the dirt street

are the gold tuba's
brontosaurian reach. Three fat old guys

making music, those
unremarkable shades of grey

who'd been hiding under their skins,
are planes of blue shale now,

ageless with fossils. Irony
is bad taste.

Like magic bullets
for a disease that used to be terminal,

balls of sun
hail from the accordion, a purity post

post-modern, plain
beyond. Where! Where have they gone,

our tedium and pain. The dumb drums
frame the saving.
Tim Houghton
Current Poets - Archive - Subscribe - Links - The Editors
Content © 2017, Delaware Poetry Review. All rights revert to individual poets and writers.