jock librarian

If Moore and Bishop were alive today, they would sing Julie Sheehan's praises--because Orient Point is that good. The extraordinary is subtly revealed through the ordinary: a blooming pinecone, a tough pack of teens, a stray pet. "Gifted in humor" and "giftedly dramatic," Sheehan's voice is splendidly cool. "Polar Bear in the Central Park Zoo" would pair perfectly with Bishop's "At the Fishhouses" (or better yet, "The Imaginary Iceberg") in a poetry discussion group.

Watched, captivating, he swims to the rocky shelf
and berths a beat before pushing off with plate-sized
foot, belly up, yellow head plowing a watery furrow.

He soaks. A forepaw of backstrokes the water once
idly, but with force enough to speed his streamlined
bulk, across the dole of open sea he's fathomed utterly.

He dives as if tethered, submerged body spread and flat
against the viewing glass, mounted momentarily, a trophy
hide on the lodge wall. Watchers shriek, but he moves on

his fixed orbit, water-logged planet, up to the rock, a push,
one backstroke, dive, eyes closed the while. His swim,
compulsory as a Busby Berkeley routine, has captivated

the bear, too, or made him half captive, while the other half,
repeating his invention move for move, seeks a different
outcome: a new mercy, colder, austere; more genuine ice.

Bravo, Julie Sheehan--a most genuine voice!