Monday, March 25, 2013

How to say it

     You could say simply, in reference to the arial ballet of a stunt pilot, that he flew. Or, in the words of Annie Dillard, you could say this:

     "He piled loops in heaps and praised height. He unrolled the scroll of the air, extended it, and bent it into Mobius strips; he furled line in a thousand new ways, as if he were inventing a new script and writing it in one infinitely recurving utterance until I thought the bounds of beauty would break." 

From Annie Dillard's "The Stunt Pilot"

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Haven't we seen this already?

Yes. You have if you've been reading my blog for a while. But all the same, I give you a poem inspired by a nonfiction piece that I wrote and posted long ago.

Hello Again, St. Theobald


I wipe fingerprint traces
off what ought to be
two crystal clear sets
of glass double doors,
the entrance to the halls of knowledge

more commonly known as
the library.
Everyone smudges their hands
here, the glass the only place they
wipe off their grime, but
I wish they’d do it in the bathrooms.

His voice sounds in my mind
like thunder, or a thousand paper towel rolls
hitting tile flooring from
four stories up.

“You called? Saint Theobald
speaking, sacrosanct saint of your kind,
janitor, and here to give you aid!”

Blue jeans and a grey shirt hang
on glowing arms, head, and legs
in the air above my head,
dripping ectoplasm all over
the floor.

I wait in silence,
stand still in the presence,
watching a girl in a red coat
obliviously mush her fingertips
over the next door.

His voice grates now
like the creak of squeegees:
“You missed a spot,”
and he points a finger
at the door.

I glower.
No janitor is ever
exempted from absolute correction.
Looking down, I spray Windex
on the next door over.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

And Fish Swim Through

This pond,
surrounded
by trees and
the murky smell
of decomposition,
is dappled dark in shadow.

The biggest fish
I've ever seen in a pond
this size breaks
the blackness
of weedy water,
sliding slimly underneath,
a silken knife.

But if I
touch the water,
I will feel it only as
air
swirling around my
fingertips.