Tuesday, July 09, 2013

Crayon Shades of Heat


I go with this,
just what I need:
a thought
to proceed on.

(A red horse named Fear
that flies you to safety.)

A humid night—
dark with heat,
the room shrinking inward,
breezes searching the room.

(You are too far under them,
the fan keeps them to itself.)

A humid night—
however you mean this,
there is no relief.
The red horse is made of blood.

(Pounding with your blood
as you enter the dream of escape.)

A humid night—
you are awake under the dream.
One is the other.
You make yourself drift.

seeking another dimension.)

The horse is real.
You grip your knees.
You cling to the whip of its mane
as it carries you into a poem of its own.



If it be storm outside
and I inside am storm
and the sultry sky
hangs brimly over the old summer,
what must I do with windows?

Now gray burns against
the hour of my thunder;
even the birds are frightened
and have fallen silent.

The pear tree glowers darkly
with its many eyes.
Green is thick and dusty
and the churning skies
are heavy.

There is rain in the air
and in the bated wind.
There is rain in the silence.
There is rain in the promise of itself.
But it does not rain
and we were ready.

(first pub. in Galley Sail Review, 1989)

(after "Lines and Spaces" by Cynthia Hurtubis)
A vertical formation of lines in the unstable
foreground compels the curious eye—six

wet strokes of brown that hold to a slipping
border, perhaps a section of levitated fence

or a tangible signature of storm. The mottled
sky creates an abstract face whose eyes glance

down toward a thin, dun spread of light, blotches
of muddy green complete the brief disguise.

Meltings begin—diagonal and sheer—smearing
some thought before it’s fully formed—undoing

the face—making a new confusion in the air.
And there are landscapes like this everywhere.


(Canada, 1980)

Almost dark now.
The early sleepers
have gone to bed.

They lie there talking,
murmuring what they say . . .
of the day . . .

of the weather . . .
each not really listening
to the other.

Almost dark now.
Nine o’clock.
And the back-lit leaves

are quiet on the trees.
The early sleepers
have gone to bed,

but they do not sleep.
They listen to the clock.
They take turns

getting up again
to roam the small apartment
with forgotten things to do.

They sigh and talk,
sigh and talk.
It is almost dark.

they say again.

(first pub. in Rattlesnake Review, 2005)


Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix! (Sorry to be late; our Internet server was down.)

This week's Seed of the Week is At the Pawn Shop. Send your musings to kathykieth@hotmail.com (no deadline on SOWs).

And be sure to scroll down to the blue box (below the green box) on the right for this week's poetry happenings, including Poetry Off-the-Shelves in Placerville on Weds.; a reading of Evan Myquest's poems by some of Sacramento's premo poets at Luna's Cafe this coming Thursday; plus two readings this weekend by former CSUS Professor Eugene Redmond.


Today's LittleNip:


The flat blue sky of summer
filling the window square, the
only view of the day to come.

The only clouds are in the
mountains—that far-off view.
There is a pending—

a quietness to the air that
that makes one listen
for a distant roll of thunder.