Author Archives: Jeff Schwaner

About Jeff Schwaner

Poet: three published books of verse and two novels. Studied poetry at Cornell University, where I was awarded the Dorothy Sugarman Poetry Prize and George Harmon Coxe Award for Contributions to Creative Writing. Entrepreneur: Co-founder in 2000 of Booksurge, an author-initiated self publishing and Print On Demand (POD) site purchased by Amazon in 2005. Working guy: manager at LexisNexis. Family man: husband and father of three. New England native and current Virginia resident. Big fan of Blue Ridge mountains and hills and trees in general.

Christmas Eve, early morning

Time, relentless wind. Awake this winter night
I hear its empty roar, filled with angry nothing

Passing on its way to nothing beyond the ice
On our window pane. When the sun rises

The ice may last a day or two, that’s how cold
The wind has made us, but it’ll melt when we’re

Not looking, like it was never there, like we 
Won’t be someday. My hand is on your hip.

Our bodies’ warmth a single thing I won’t 
remember when I’m dead, so I’ll remember 

Now, unless our minds are like the wind
And carry some fragment from our time

Together, dislodged from this world and 
Blown to the next, together, or empty,

Or empty, together, no memory but the thing
Itself, afloat and away, that’s the both of us.

—for Mary, 12/24/22

Late October

The sun molts behind its cloud chrysalis.
Into something colder. Something staring

Through a dirty window. Face with no
Features from which there’s no sense of being seen

But the possibility of being seen feels like a violation
Of a rule older than writing. Who’s breaking it? This old

Morning, who is in the wrong? Starlings carelessly
Scribble song across the lower skies. It’s fun

Being a troubled young man; but a troubled 
Old man is a different bird. And the trouble

Bursts out slowly, like a butterfly pulls 
Itself from its insufficient tomb.

‘The Drift’ is now available.

My first book since 2018’s Wind Intervals is now available.

Order a signed copy below!

A few of these poems have appeared in recent issues of Beloit Poetry Journal and New Letters. I’m grateful to the editors for their interest in my work.

The $15.00 price for a signed copy includes shipping. Order here. (You can also order an unsigned copy from Amazon here.)

Title page.
Dedication page and half-title.
Front cover.
Cover art by Mary Schwaner.

Mirror, Cape Cod

In the house my parents built. These mirrors have seen my face,
my naked body, for longer than any living thing: at twelve, sunburned

And skinny and flush with summer friendships from the beach;
at twenty-three, back from graduate school with the young writer

who’d become my wife, tired after walking ten miles from Hyannis
to Dennis to surprise my parents with a visit from Boston.

And now at fifty-six. Watching our three teenagers watch the sun
Set from the Cape’s highest point, stone tower a stone’s throw

From this house. O age inexorable and gentle has given me
A face weathered with seasons of gratitude. In this bathroom mirror is

An image of each time I’ve stood before it, in the same place,
Dripping wet, a little transparent, my selves seeing uneasily through each other’s

particular reflections. It took every second to get us all here.
No wonder the image wavers.

Outside and a mile away through scrub oak and sand the bay
glints with day’s embers, the slow ticking away of light

dropping through the horizon’s grate and the oncoming
Rolling rememberlessness of night, the countless

Reflections no one will see

Sesuit Harbor song

We never went to your father’s river
though far north of here we stood

on a jetty at the end of a normal day
while my mother took pictures of the sky.

Heartbreak is heartbreak at any age:
always too big to fit into a single person.

Pick any shell off this Cape Cod beach
and listen: the sound goes on forever although

every shell’s message is short: “I’m alive
and well” though it always arrives a lifetime

too late or should we assume the life is ours?
Sunset was so big, like a normal day’s sunset

with a bonus sunset for tourists, my mother
had to take another picture and another.

Still the sky wouldn’t fit. And in every photo
you and I stood among strangers like every

group that gathers by happenstance along water
and each held a shell and my mother took

their picture and wrote their names in a notebook
I found years later far from her photographs

and she told them how I laughed so heartily
as an infant people would interrupt my naps

just to watch me wake up and laugh and it
found its way into their heads so that even when

it left a memory had formed around it like a shell
and it was their own laughter saying I’m alive

and well and I wish you all well without your names
in my mother’s pictures with my father at her side

Near the end of a dark year

In the stressed syllable of the last month
sometimes I wake in the middle of the night

in the unstressed syllable of the third hour
and feel my heart moving around inside me

as if it is trying to escape when I am
not looking but where would it go?

It’s too early for the scrabble of starling
in the gutter above the open window

The cold air comes in, musical notes
the size of pillows. Like I haven’t

figured out how to dream yet
a window trying to be a wall

What magic changed glass into night?
Then today as the moon rose just after

sunset I found myself in a clearing
mind, thoughts scattered into the thicket beyond.

My heart circles slowly at the edge of the light.
I trust the trees like it trusts the trees.

Like a large cat it shrugs its shoulders
as it walks, like it’s forgetting to take

responsibility for anything like with each step
it’s a step further from what it’s done

Its fur glows at the edge of the circle of light
maybe waiting for me to turn my head

or for another like it to show up at the edge
then from the outside it will come for me

Imagining deadlines

The moon crawls over my windshield, a bored insect.
Reflection of a reflection of light

on the grim and circling stone.
The world does not share my sense of time:

In a vehicle parked off the road, going nowhere
I sense no motion at all in this luminous bug

on the curved glass. Doesn’t it know
I don’t have all night to be moved?

The last warm day of the year

The last warm day of the year

The October sun rests on a loblolly pine.
Late afternoon, slight breeze. River

of leaves sliding along the street side.
I am too old, says the sun, for this: I get

up later every day and I’m tired earlier.
The pine squints at the sun’s single ring

of fire: Try having as many rings as I do
says the pine. Try living in full seasons

instead of skating above it all. Try,
just once, standing still.

Standing in the sun by the church

Where the light falls may fail
something else along its edge

close enough to see it
but not be in it or of it

Sun streams through stained
glass but not to the people inside

under the shadows each of
their individual Gods

My bench in the shade got cold
but all I had to do was walk

a few steps past the walnut tree’s
highest eminence now just

shifting sparkle and shadow
at my feet — even on the ground

I’m higher than spires
my limbs bound to no rooted

trunk of belief — I know
I’ll float freely one day

but I’ll fall like we all fall
and the landing I have seen

against living’s gravity
is almost weightless