Thursday, January 25, 2007


(A revision of grief poem so it is intelligible, or more so, perhaps. Still, reading it to myself, the rhythm still feels off, like it ends too quickly or something.)

It’s been raining. Overhead, reachless
Water drops glisten across thick power lines

The pavement, too, shimmers, wet and black.
The cloudy backdrop, heaven, falls steel gray

And the gray boy still lies on a pier at the river
The man in yellow pajamas stops turning in his hospital bed

The woman in the garden puts down her shovel
To gather up the pieces of her fallen white hair

Their lungs have stopped expanding
It’s no longer possible to pull in air

Choked with river sludge, vomit, red packs of Winstons.
What the hell is all that crap doing in there?

Drink this coffee, take a nap
Maybe you’d like to journal, write something

When they surface remember
Keep breathing, keep pulling in air.


david dodd lee said...

this is vastly improved. it knows
to go outside itself, it knows how to use the images that present themselves to you. and I think the rhythm is pretty fine. it's sure getting there. This poem
gets into dreamland in spots, wereas your other was all effort
and THOUGHT, or felt like it. This
is a very good revision . . .

Charmi said...

Okay. Reading Gluck is helping, immensely. There is something to what you said about reading more, and too, I think taking off the analyst outfit helps. That probably didn't make sense. I mean, of course, stopping my incessant thinking and just finding a way to move.