(Thanks to Melissa for the jump-start)
A night flash of electricity
somewhere to the north
brightens, temporarily,
the blue behind the black.
Though the sky is paler than we
remember from the light of day,
it is somehow brighter for its
lack of shine & glare & burn.
The green of grass sheens
without shadow, the tableau tree
stands still, its head of translucent leaves,
nearly neon in temporary gloaming.
A hill rises, brown lines
slanting upwards without
regard to the horizon &
their own perpendicularity.
A white farm house, red-roofed,
with a sloped porch, a sleeping yellow
dog— perhaps just awakened now
by the cannon fire that shakes me too.
All of this half-remembered,
half-dreamed, when a friend flicks
the lights of a poem off & on
in the middle of a drifty day.
Somewhere a mirror shows
another version of the artist,
younger, more or less confident,
considering whether or not to shave.
When the lights flash off & on,
he does not recognize the reflection
in the mirror, doesn’t know the date,
the hour, or the details of room he’s in.
Just as quickly, off & on again,
and it is now. Out the front window,
looking north: a white farm house,
a clouded sky, blue & birded.
Tonight, the blue will still be,
with or without the yellow flash.
In the morning, shaving under an uneven light,
I'll wait a little longer for recognition.
[It's not fixed, but I'm done with it for now.]
A night flash of electricity
somewhere to the north
brightens, temporarily,
the blue behind the black.
Though the sky is paler than we
remember from the light of day,
it is somehow brighter for its
lack of shine & glare & burn.
The green of grass sheens
without shadow, the tableau tree
stands still, its head of translucent leaves,
nearly neon in temporary gloaming.
A hill rises, brown lines
slanting upwards without
regard to the horizon &
their own perpendicularity.
A white farm house, red-roofed,
with a sloped porch, a sleeping yellow
dog— perhaps just awakened now
by the cannon fire that shakes me too.
All of this half-remembered,
half-dreamed, when a friend flicks
the lights of a poem off & on
in the middle of a drifty day.
Somewhere a mirror shows
another version of the artist,
younger, more or less confident,
considering whether or not to shave.
When the lights flash off & on,
he does not recognize the reflection
in the mirror, doesn’t know the date,
the hour, or the details of room he’s in.
Just as quickly, off & on again,
and it is now. Out the front window,
looking north: a white farm house,
a clouded sky, blue & birded.
Tonight, the blue will still be,
with or without the yellow flash.
In the morning, shaving under an uneven light,
I'll wait a little longer for recognition.
[It's not fixed, but I'm done with it for now.]
Hey! I was still trying to formulate my comments! Looking forward to the next draft. And is that an older pic, or did M. bring more flowers?
ReplyDeleteSorry. It's back. The picture is not new, the flowers are still gone. I posted the picture as a placeholder for the poem while I tried to stop disliking it. It didn't work, but I did make some changes.
ReplyDeleteYou should email me that pic... I miss the view. My real classroom might not have a window at all... ugh.
ReplyDeleteThere were one or two things I liked better about the first draft, namely the phrasing of "the blue behind the black." I also thought there was a better balance of alliteration in the first one - or maybe I'm just noticing it more now.
I can't tell you how to "fix" it (if it still needs "fixing"), but I was going to say earlier that I do like the combination of images. Kinda spooky, but not in a stereotypical way. It also reminds me (I don't know why) of the poem about the recurring dream from a few weeks back... maybe look there for inspiration.
I think this is a different version than what I read a day or so ago? I don't remember the line "green of grass sheens" when I first read it? This version seems 'tighter' than what I read, so I'm hoping they are different. Though, confusion & absentmindedness are my permanent states of being.
ReplyDeleteI like this poem, I like the fact the title summons darkness, but the poem is filled with color & light. The exploration of color during a nighttime thunderstorm is an interesting juxtaposition. There's a lot going on here--I love the way it leads to this image of you before the mirror. This poem is looking, seeking, waiting, just as the poet is.
I'm happy to have provided the jump start, but you didn't have to one-up me. ;)
It is slightly different. In the end I don't like either of them. I like what I meant to say and not what I did say. I've been wanting to write about the phenomena of seeing the blue sky when lightning flashes at night. Your poem inspired that memory and the need to poem-ize it. This poem does not one-up yours. In fact, I am embarrassed of it, but thanks again for the kindness. The doubt/faith next post comes directly out of this and other failures--and the shaving.
ReplyDelete