Northern New England Review Volume 42 | 2022
Northern New England Review is published as a creative voice for the Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine region. NNER publishes writers and artists who live in, are from, or have connections to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. If you live here, were once from here, lost or found your heart here, or are currently searching for it among the green hills, sparkling ponds, and rocky coasts, NNER has the poems, short fiction, and creative nonfiction you want to read. Northern New England Review is edited and designed by students and faculty at Franklin Pierce University in Rindge, New Hampshire. Questions can be sent to Margot Douaihy, editor, at douaihym@franklinpierce.edu.
Northern New England Review is published as a creative voice for the Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine region. NNER publishes writers and artists who live in, are from, or have connections to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. If you live here, were once from here, lost or found your heart here, or are currently searching for it among the green hills, sparkling ponds, and rocky coasts, NNER has the poems, short fiction, and creative nonfiction you want to read.
Northern New England Review is edited and designed by students and faculty at Franklin Pierce University in Rindge, New Hampshire. Questions can be sent to Margot Douaihy, editor, at douaihym@franklinpierce.edu.
You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles
YUMPU automatically turns print PDFs into web optimized ePapers that Google loves.
Russell Dupont
ROCKS & STONES
When I was young, there were rock fights.
Two gangs arrayed in haphazard ranks,
in mocking contempt, across from each other.
When all was done, some limped away
with bloodied heads, bruised and swelling knots
and some, after a slap across the side of the head,
dragged off by aproned mothers
muttering about stupidity.
Other days, we set bottles
on backyard fences
and like Spahn, Feller
and Whitey Ford,
reared back, kicked high,
hoped for the smash of glass.
On summer nights, we skimmed
smooth stones across
the flatness of the bay,
watching them skip off
the rippled water.
On this just-warm Vermont morning
when the mist skims the fields,
I walk the hard-packed road to Willoughby,
hefting stones, testing my aged arm.
The high, hard one is neither
and bounces benignly in LeBrecque’s pasture.
A broken branch serves as a bat and
I loft rocks in lazy arcs into the field.
26 | RUSSELL DUPONT
Change language