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Saturday, April 19, 2014

National Poetry Month, Day 18: Anchors aweigh

Pont des Arts, a Batobus, the Seine. Paris.
I just finished watching 'Two Days in Paris,' so how about a short one from Ezra Pound, also set in the City of LIght?
The apparition of these faces in the crowd :
Petals on a wet, black bough 

Over at Writer's Digest Poem a Day challenge for National Poetry Month, we must have used one too many shitty words in our bad poems; every time we post it gets put in the moderation queue. Our bad.

Anyway, our task today:
... write a weather poem. A weather poem can be a poem about a hurricane or tornado; it can be a poem about the weatherperson; it can be a poem about forgetting an umbrella on a rainy day; it can be big; it can be small; etc.
So we told a little story.

Small Craft Warning

Let’s take the boat out,
he said. Storm’s over,
we’ll be okay.

The dock was still wet,
though the rain had stopped.
He opened the cover,
peeled off the tarps and
stashed them away.
The whitecaps blinked
beyond the marina.
It’s calming down,
he said -- even though
the breeze was stiff
and the lake choppy --
we’ll be fine.
Out in the open water
he cut the engine and
floated, the waves
hitting the hull
with staccato splashes.
Above the small craft
the clouds moved on,
the storm fading east,
the thin glowing line of clearing
defining a malleable boundary
between the slate water
and mirrored sky.
When the sun slide
between the lake and
and the thinning clouds,
he steered south, to home,
and tied up.

On the beach
all that was left of the storm
was a curving line of dead fish
and detritus.

She waited in the day’s
last oblique and crimson light.
I guess you were right,
she said. You’re okay.
You’re wrong,
he said.
Storm’s not over.

This poem is at writing stage 1.5 -- it's like, one revision of a first draft. But when you're writing a poem a day it's the kind of thing that happens. What I'm trying to do with it is more than a one-day task. For a change.

Storm’s not over?


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