So there's this poetry contest here in St. Louis where they pick 15 poems to be displayed inside local Amtrak cars. I'm going to submit a few un-critiqued poems, which I'll probably have to hand-deliver since they're due in the office on Monday, and I only just went over some potential poems to turn in and made sure they fit the maximum 15-line limit...Is it just me, or is hand-delivery border-line creepy? I get to be almost-late and pseudo-stalkeresque. Story of my life.
FYI: Sean Keck, BC '07 was one of the winners last year.
Here are the poems I'll probably submit. (Posting them here instead of on our G-Docs account is so in-your-face.)
Covered Bridge
You made yourself a covered bridge:
Red walls, white roof, beams flaked with sawdust,
Weather-scraped, painted like seasons
Of rainstorms have rolled down upright panels,
And stood: soaking, drying, standing.
A steepled roof, scent of hay can trick the mind,
Red lumber can still the heart:
Shelter to take us over the stream, and over, on.
But I can hear the whitewater stones,
Tramp the grass, feel it rise in the soil.
I know the creak of air through floorboards,
The absence underneath. Please
Don’t build me a barn for passage.
I’m four legs, one mouth in still drowning water, and
The river’s home to me.
Toasting the Flood
The flood comes for frittatas and stays to wash in the sights.
To work for once, the Venetians walk through water.
Meanwhile the gondoliers docked
At half-submerged café tables
Toast the morning off, glassfuls
Scooped from the waist with well-
Tuned wrists, gray water high
Over taut ankles, and stones
Over more water, spilling the flood
Into itself:
Alla salute di Venezia, the floating city!
To our Atlantis, may we go down together—
When the world turns over,
They’ll need boatmen below, they’ll need
Those men that know the way.
Inauguration Day, Hampton Overpass
To the man made of January ash
Standing in the crushed-us dust cross
Roads, at night, the gaping
Hole where old Hampton Bridge used to be, a question—
Him foot prints freezing as a Polaroid
Turns to focus, the lamplights go out
On the town, this stretch of midtown
Where the overpass went under and came down—
Him at the imploded span, deserted
To the search for lightning conductors
Amidst concrete cylinders, almost praying
For dissolution—oh, let bulbs overrun their rims,
Whittle us to our central spinning—a question—
Does the breath, waiting to be breathed, have to ask:
How do we get there from here?
...So, let me know how you all are doing with writing, jobs, life, etc. And if you think I should adjust these poems before Monday at 5 p.m. Any advice welcome.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Your poems are so in-my-face that I had to respond, even though there are only 80 minutes left until 5 and this comment field seems very small and forlorn.
Covered Bridge and Toasting the Flood are brilliant poems. I had a harder time getting into Inauguration Day, Hampton Overpass. It seemed like the language was getting in the way of my comprehending the image. I think, though, that this is probably more due to some fundamental flaw within myself instead of anything in the poem, especially after reading the other two.
Katie - I think this might be too late to comment, but I wanted to echo Tom's comments. There's something, from the first three words of each of the poems, that draws you into an observational melancholy (perfect for public transit). I'm sorry for not being more specific - I'm a little out of practice, and this inspired me to get off my ass and post something of my own so I'm off to work.
Ok, way past the commenting deadline, but thought I'd write something anyways. The first two poems are so visceral, I am immediately taken into this place in NH I used to go to with my family, and there was this lonely covered bridge there. I think it ended up on postcards and other touristy visuals, but for some reason, it always seemed so alone, like the only man-made thing for miles. I used to read the graffiti on the insides of the wooden panels, and wonder why I never once did see another human walk under it in all the years I went there. But your depictions of smell and atmosphere arose this incredibly nostalgic sense, and for that, I'm blown away.
The second poem is also one I can relate to (perhaps I'm selfish as a reader of poetry; if it's too foreign to me, I tend to steer clear), and brought me back not necessarily to the Venice I experienced, but more like the hype and fear and precautions that were taking place. All the visitors get prepared, buying their shitty rainboots that wouldn't actually function in a flooding, and they talk to each other, wondering what the Acqua Alta will be like, while the residents and regulars do little other than slap down a few planks near San Marco, and chuckle at the frantic crowds. I never once saw a gondolier or vaporetto driver get panicked over the rising seas, and this poem has a calming tone to it that reminds me of their mindsets.
The last poem is something I'm a bit less familiar with, and while I had the urge to go research in hopes of being able to better understand, I resisted, maybe out of sheer laziness. But, from what I am gathering, there's this great sense of separation from the rest of the world. Is this poor old man trying to get somewhere? Inauguration? Ha, maybe I'm brainwashed from all the recent news, but I just see him desperately trying to do something, praying for luck to go his way, and yet being completely overlooked and forgotten. It's definitely sad, at least that's what I'm getting out of it. Please correct me if I'm wrong, or totally misled. I think you're a great poet, and I'm actually inspired to start re-attempting some poetry myself, but again, must have that 'clay' attitude and know that my stuff will be in much rawer form than these lovelies you have composed here! Great job, and best of luck. And I didn't know Sean Keck was a winner! That's some inspiration for you, right there!
Post a Comment