Matthew Buckley Smith

Juglans Nigra

  We had no words for what we found

Taking the air behind your house that night:

  Speckled with idle window light,

     Something pale green and round.


  Smooth to the touch and cold as stone,

It gave no scent. We passed it hand to hand,

  Laughing, and could not understand

     What little we'd been shown.


  Years later and too late I learned

How a black walnut looks and how it holds

  Its heavy fruit within its folds

     And how it must be earned.

Matthew Buckley Smith was born in Atlanta, Georgia. He earned his MFA in poetry at the Johns Hopkins University. His poems have appeared (or will soon appear) in Beloit Poetry Journal, Think Journal, Linebreak, Iron Horse Literary Review, Commonweal, and Measure, as well as in Best American Poetry 2011. He lives in Baltimore with his wife, Joanna.



Current Issue
Contributors' Notes

Email this poem Printer friendly page

A CLOSER LOOK: Jean Nordhaus

Peggy Aylsworth

Bruce Bennett

Brad Bisio

Judith Bowles

Terri Brown-Davidson

Wendy Taylor Carlisle

Gayle Reed Carroll

Grace Cavalieri

Will Cordeiro

Barbara Crooker

Philip Dacey

Dante Di Stefano

Margot Farrington

Roger Fogelman

Taylor Graham

Will Greenway

Maryanne Hannan on Diane Lockward

Audrey Henderson

Laura Eleanor Holloway

Siham Karami

Peter Kline

Judy Kronenfeld

Michael Lauchlan

Lyn Lifshin

Laura Manuelidis

Judith McCombs

Nancy Fitz-Hugh Meneely

Joe Mills

Yvette Neisser Moreno and Patricia Bejarano Fisher

David Derbin Nolta

Andrew H. Oerke

Dean Olson

Laura Orem on Linda Pastan

Laura Orem on Terence Winch

Scott Owens

William Page

Beth Paulson

Eleanor Paynter

Joanna Pearson

Simon Perchik

R.D. Parker

Oliver Rice

W.M. Rivera

Michael Salcman

Mike Smetzer

Matthew Buckley Smith

Stephen Spencer

Rob Spiegel

Jack Stewart

Mark Thalman

Kathi Wolfe

Patrick Woodcock

Katherine E. Young















Last Updated: Feb 22, 2020 - 12:30:13 PM

Copyright 2005 - 2020 Cook Communication.