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Leaf, Sunlight, Asphalt
June 2009

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Dark Pool
July 2004

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January 1997

Firewood and Ashes - New and Selected Poems

Ben Howard

ISBN: 978-1-910669-10-5

Page Count: 264

Publication Date: Friday, March 13, 2015

Cover Artwork: Unveiling, (I), ceramic sculpture by Robin Caster Howard. Photo by Brian Oglesbee

Click to play audio Ben Howard reads "Adagio" from Firewood and Ashes ... play

About this Book

Encompassing forms as diverse as the free-verse lyric, the sonnet sequence, the verse letter, and the meditative monologue, this selection from Ben Howardís six previous books demonstrates the breadth of his cultural awareness and the depth of his poetic achievement. Ranging in locale from Eastern Iowa to Western New York to Dublin, Ireland, these present-centered but historically-minded poems integrate the conventions of Western verse with the insights of Eastern meditative practice. Ben Howard is a poet, essayist, classical guitarist, and longtime Zen practitioner. These strands of his life are interwoven in his poems, which evince a sensibility keenly aware of impermanence, acutely alert to linguistic subtleties, and deeply attuned to the sonorities of words.

Author Biography

Ben Howard is Emeritus Professor of English at Alfred University. For the past four decades, he has contributed poems, reviews, essays, and articles to leading journals in Ireland, England, and America. His numerous awards include the Milton Dorfman Award in Poetry, the Theodore Christian Hoepfner Award, and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. He is the author of nine previous books, most recently The Backward Step: Essays on Zen Practice (Whitlock, 2014). Visit his website at and his blog at

Photo of Ben Howard by 
Robin Caster Howard

Read a sample from this book

What is This?

For Alexander and Amanda
      June 5, 2011

When we took a leisurely walk         
Around your neighborhood
One sunny afternoon

We paused at a strangerís yard.
What caught your joint attention
Was, itself, a stranger:

A green, globular fruit
Suspended from a vine.
You stopped to study it,

Questioning again
And again what it might be,
As though the mystery

Of all things yet unknown,
Unnamed, unclassified,
Had gathered in that yard.

As, indeed, it had.
And as the two of you
Extended into pure

Nothingness your lines
Of thought, not yet converging
But not diverging either,

You became not two, not one.
And what I would wish for you
Is not the enraptured gaze

Into each otherís eyes
But that congruent look
At what the passing world

Is beckoning you to see.
What is this? I would bid you
Ask of what you meet,

Whether it be a fruit
Or fragrant foreign plant
Or inexplicable child.


Call it if you must an instrument,
this meter that has served me through the decades,
its pulse an echo of my temperament,
its low-relief a match for my reserve.
But who is playing whom, Iíd like to know,
feeling again the surge that would propel
the calmest, clearest mind into a maelstrom
and launch the steady heart into a vortex
where anyone could drown. In Monaghan
one April morning, I took an aimless walk,
wanting nothing more than to be rid
of aging fears and unforgiving voices.
Instead, I found the carcass of a creature,
a mess of skin and bones that might have been
a dog or newborn lamb, for all I knew.
Not what Iíd expectedónot at alló
nor what an April walk in search of nothing
might reasonably entail. So if I tell you
that walking steadily in prose or verse
is neither safe nor proof against disorder,
think of that ugly, desiccated body,
which, I understand, was part of nature
but nonetheless unsettled me for hours,
despite the even tempo of my steps,
the tranquil rhythm of my exhalations.

Not Yet

Give me, if you will, a little time
To understand how meanings come and go,
Resembling ants converging at an anthill
And then dispersing, each with work to do.
Meanwhile, the anthill rises and expands.
The sun comes out. The days grow ever shorter.

Give me time to sense how meanings perish
Like plums left unattended in a bowl.
Because their lives were finite in the first place,
That spreading mold should come as no surprise.
So it is with meanings, I suppose,
Though how and why Iíve yet to understand.

Copyright © Ben Howard 2015

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