Poem of the Day
Summer Storm in Fayetteville
Motionless under a glass bell of heat,
my brother and I lie on a slab of stone
playing death. The nighthawks swerve
above our heads and the cicadas sing
neon in the locust trees in the darkening
back yard. Our parents gin mumble
Coltrane and Nixon while the storm
gathers far west of town--long
reeds of water sweeping down streets
and fields. The bell breaks with light
and thunder tumbles the air. Nighthawks
scatter to the trees at the far edge
of the world. Raindrops spin in our wake.
posted by Sean @ 3:32 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
This is the best one, yet, I think. How long can you keep this up? You're living on the edge.
This reminded me a bit of the party at Mark Cherry's house when a few of us lay on our backs on his high sloping roof during the lightning storm above. It seemed reckless, but was probably not as bad as climbing that rickety ladder drunk.
I think you were up there with us, Sean; I remember you talking to that cute but goofy theater major girl.
Where are the now,
the cute goofy
theater major girls
of our youth?
Yeah, I was up there. We should get drunk with Mark again some time and climb up there again. That town had good storms.
Thanks again for the comment. I'm on not much sleep (star wars) and coffee and a shit storm of grading, so I'm worried about today's poem. I may have to phone this one in. Yesterdays was a bit harder than earlier ones.
This is interesting for me to do though. It's like the initial moment isn't too hard to capture, but all these quick ones seem to lack the "so what" aspect. But, I don't know if I think enough of poetry right now to worry about that--if real poets shuffle their shit into the void of unread books, why not just deal with it. And what greater void than blogs. My only worry is that this kind of exercise devalues revision which I believe makes half of art.
This isn't easy for me, and I have to work hard on these. Mainly, I just need to get back to writing and to remind myself that I can. Thanks again for reading.
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