Woodbury Poet Laureate, Sandy Carlson, Releases 5th Poetry Collection

Does the world really need another book of poetry? Ask Woodbury Poet Laureate Sandy Carlson that question, and you will get an emphatic “Yes!” in reply.

“At its heart, poetry is the gift that comes from paying close attention to experience and putting words on those experiences of the heart and mind,” Carlson says. “Through poetry, we find out who we are as individuals and as a community. So, I say, ‘Bring it. The world needs poetry.’”

Carlson, who has penned four other poetry collections, says Bearing Witness to the Wind explores the eternal and the ephemeral–the tangible beauty and love we experience in this world and how we endure when beauty, love, and loved ones pass.

Explaining the impetus behind this book, Carlson says: “I lost my mom in November, 2019, before COVID-19 sent us all home, and my dad in April, 2020, in the early days of quarantine, when we were afraid of our own groceries. Like everyone, I was home a lot, and I spent a lot of time thinking about the gifts I had received from my mom and dad over the years in terms of love and learning and keeping a sense of humor. Reflecting on this inheritance of the heart, I have been exploring the inheritance of our loved ones’ spirits and how honoring the gift can help us re-imagine our lives and move forward.”

Bearing Witness to the Wind is available at Studio Hill at 507 Main Street South in Woodbury and at Amazon.com. All proceeds for locally purchased books will go to Woodbury’s Dollars for Scholars scholarship program.

Sample from Bearing Witness to the Wind by Sandy Lee Carlson

Local Music
Where you’re from
Is who you are,
Your mouth shaped
By the sounds you hear,
Sounds that teach you
To make sound.
The music, like the epic,
Is always local.
Take it with you.
Tell it so that others
Can claim it,
And you’ll always be home.
Think of it like this:
Your voice
Like the wind in the treetops
Feeds precious air
Into the length of your body
Grows your roots
Like the slender fingers
Of a fine pianist
Into soft, secret earth
That fits like a glove.
Know this secret:
Trees love music
And they know how to dance.
This is how stories travel,
And this is how you know
That you are home:
You hear them.

Morning Coffee
We set the pot at night for ten cups
Of dark roast, coarsely ground coffee
To perk at first light, when the sky is all
Blue-black ink splattered
With even darker blots
Of trees reaching and spreading
Thickly downward
And thinly up and outward
With dancing arms and fingertips that
Spread minutely, infinitely
Into lighter shades
Of blue-black, bluer, and bluer
As I arise earlier than I have to,
The sure fragrance of ground coffee
Still on my hands,
To watch the automatic writing
Of dawn spelling the day,
A nice, hot cup of coffee
Firmly set in my lap,
Two little dogs firmly planted
In soft blankets beside me.
The first half hour
Of my days starts like this:
Dreaming dogs basking
In the warmth of their own bodies
As my dreaming mind
Drifts into the first notes of day
As cardinals alert the waking wood
That dawn comes again
And the air will warm and lift us
With the light; we are alive,
And soon there will be
Sunflower seeds and millet
From a servant of birdsong and light
Who, like you,
Awaits the return
Of substance to life
The feathers that carry our dreams
Ever onward and up.