I might start posting some of my poems here somewhat frequently. I'm proud of them, and honored that they chose me. Each required a great deal of mental struggle and passionate upheaval.
This one is from one of my nine chapbooks. I hope to consolidate them into a full-length collection someday.
But, you know, in the end one must ask, Why do we write?
Who can, or will, really listen?
And why?
--------------------
Wind Thought
its broken career
makes goblins
out of trees,
whistles wounded
in their teething
fissures.
it steals hats,
pulls Medusa
from our heads,
writhing locks
like Marley’s chains,
all of us Scrooge
near this astral waif
who craves our gifts—
this first panhandler
who sups fall leaves
like hors d’oeuvres from mud,
catapulting its thirst,
restless for a bed
but finding only space,
emptier greedier space,
a vortex of racks
stretching all ways—
as if wind were
some protean Atlas,
trapped yet fleeing,
breaking out
in tantrums that lurch,
only to lick god’s
toe.
-------------------
Posts
To answer your question
ReplyDeleteit's a substitute for fishing
this compulsion,
walking one evening
one man I saw casting
his line in the stream
meandering here and there,
catching nothing
but thoughts,
at peace with himself
and the other one
slumped in his canvas seat
on the bank
as the orange tip
of his float
bobs in the wavelets,
the sixpack beer
glimpsed in the mouth
of the tent . . .
Thanks, Gwil
ReplyDelete