What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature that explores experiences and ideas that spark the writing of new poems. In our fourth series, Object Lessons, poets meditate on the magical journey from object to poem via one of their own poems. Each Monday's delivery brings you the poem and an excerpt from the essay. 
Jennifer Atkinson
Outpost of fish hawk and crow, one drowned oak, one white-blooming pear—
Lodged in the craw of the hay marsh, Hag Island.

The dock pilings and john-boat long rotten, house timbers sunk in the earth;
Rust, foundation stone, and a garden plot of haggard herbs.

Yarrow for bleeding, horehound for cough, catnip and boneset for fever,
Pokeberry, foxglove, convolulus to drive off hag-ridden dreams.

Mullein scepters, several, waist-high, faint green, each cool as a jar
Of fireflies, glow--- they must have been hers---hag tapers.

Soaked in tallow, the spikes burn down to an acrid smolder
Over a feast of winnowed thistle, one black seed for each hag spirit.

Shifting winds, liens and unclear titles. Hardly an island, flotsam
Among the reeds and sedges, witch-hazel, the usual haggling gulls.
from the book THE THINKING EYE / Parlor Press
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Cover of Jennifer Atkinson's book, The Thinking Eye
What Sparks Poetry:
Jennifer Atkinson on "Local History"

The island I called Hag Island in this poem isn’t, after the ten or so years since I wrote 'Local History,' an island anymore, not even at full high tide. What was island has become something more like a hump in the marsh. The salt brook that runs through has shallowed out and shifted. Everyday erosion and hurricane winds will do that."
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"9 Poems for This Fraught Moment"

Writers and editors from around The Atlantic's newsroom choose poems to revisit and savor. "Poems hold power. As my colleague Hannah Giorgis put it: 'Whether by conveying the scale of national grief during a pandemic, or exposing the relentlessness of racism, poetry has already created new ways of experiencing, and surviving, life’s darkest chapters.'"
 
via THE ATLANTIC
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