In writing class tonight, our instructor brought objects for us to look at and write about. His mother was a Red Cross volunteer in England during WWII. The objects: A pass for the victory parade in New York 151 days after the end of WWII, led by the 82nd Airborne; a silver pocket watch, and a champagne cork. Are there ever any good wars?
19 January 1946
Winter’s wind blasts
between brick canyons,
my feet numb in my pumps,
a reviewing stand pass in my pocket,
I wrap my arms round me
and watch the 82nd march,
their smiles gaping wounds,
white bone where flesh peels back.
Ticker tape, like bomb’s detritus,
falls around me.
The lieutenant gave me your watch,
the hands frozen at 6:02.
Last January, near the Roer River,
he found your broken smile
and brought home what he could.
Tonight, I take our bottle
from the icebox
where it waited
since you rose at dawn
and I feigned sleep,
your bomber jacket groaned
as you bent to promise
our toast on your return.
I fill my glass
and raise it
in my still silent goodbye.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
What are your muses?
What inspires you to write, to paint, to sing, to see beautiful things? What are your muses?
A brief list of mine:
The crescent moon this time of year that sets just after sunset, hung in the sky like a half-eaten slice of melon: below it the evening star swinging like an electric lavelier
The way Ben touches my hand in a quiet moment just before he looks into my face
The voice of a long forgotten lover over the phone and the way I can hear him smile when I say his name right after his hello
The lap of a wave on any beach, anywhere
The song of a warbler on an August Sunday on Huron Bay
The spoken word of someone else talking to her child without convention or care
The love letter of a long-dead poet to her eldest daughter
That hour of the day just before night when the palette narrows into grays against a purple sky
The way each of my parents has gotten sort of weepy over the strangest simple things
A brief list of mine:
The crescent moon this time of year that sets just after sunset, hung in the sky like a half-eaten slice of melon: below it the evening star swinging like an electric lavelier
The way Ben touches my hand in a quiet moment just before he looks into my face
The voice of a long forgotten lover over the phone and the way I can hear him smile when I say his name right after his hello
The lap of a wave on any beach, anywhere
The song of a warbler on an August Sunday on Huron Bay
The spoken word of someone else talking to her child without convention or care
The love letter of a long-dead poet to her eldest daughter
That hour of the day just before night when the palette narrows into grays against a purple sky
The way each of my parents has gotten sort of weepy over the strangest simple things
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Smooth sailing?
It was a night crossing,
stars bright from horizon to horizon.
We sailed into the clear water as the sun rose:
a large shark swam lazily beneath us
and the rocks appeared.
stars bright from horizon to horizon.
We sailed into the clear water as the sun rose:
a large shark swam lazily beneath us
and the rocks appeared.
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