The Crows Call from Robert’s Woods
The first warm evening of spring Robert sleeps
with his windows open. In the morning,
the crows call from the woods out back warning
about something his mind can’t seem to keep
straight when he wakes up. He has a sudden
urge to go down and check Lily, his daughter.
When he stands, he remembers she’s a lawyer
now, two kids. His son’s in Texas; his wife’s gone.
When Robert trudges downstairs, the crows
still caw to each other, and he’s still half
asleep. Maybe they want him to beg Lily’s
forgiveness. Maybe they want him to go
to Texas. He stops on the stairs, coughs,
wakes up, tries to remember why he feels guilty.
__________________
John Brantingham
Review by Suzy Harris
This poem could be the opening paragraph of a novel, the poet giving us a few details from which to construct relationships—father, daughter, son—but leaving us without clues as to why the father feels guilty. I would like to know more.
Review by Chapman Hood Frazier
Brantigham’s second sonnet, The Crows Call from Robert’s Woods, starts strong. The sonnet structure is followed through the first 8 lines before is blurs in the final 6 lines. Also, the poem’s premise of Robert waking is the key here. Unlike the crows in the poem that are calling to each other, Robert remembers that his daughter, son and his daughter are gone. This again is where the poem should end in my opinion. The poet has Robert waking at the onset and again at the end of the piece. The recrimination and guilt he feels about Lily rings hollow for me. What about the son in Texas or the missing wife? Those are other characters introduced in the poem and not developed. By shifting the point of view, the poet undermines the premise of piece.
Again, the poem could perhaps be strengthened by avoiding this shift away from Robert’s mind to the supposition that: Maybe they want him to beg Lily’s forgiveness. Who are the they in the poem? His children, his missing wife, the crows?
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
The cawing of crows, one of nature’s most globally recognizable traits, works in these poems like a mirror. Mirrors don’t lie, especially if they are black, and light cannot escape them: it’s settlement day, and the crows come at us with centurion’s nagging reproaches, each one feeling centuries old. A relentless scolding, yet not as relentless as our direction of march. Us versus them: a battle of wills that most likely will consume us both.