would have nothing whatsoever
to do with, you know — those interlopers.
It would have, I suppose,
a cold mountain stream in it,
a rock shifting in the current,
the too-loud splash of a trout.
It would have loose bark
ticking in the wind
& a saw-whet owl’s discrete
requests for clarification —
that kind of persistence.
It would have the hush
when the crickets suddenly stop
& your pulse makes such a racket
you’re sure it will give you away,
you whose knees
are incapable of bending,
whose feet grip as much of the ground
as they can still lay claim to.
It would cry, that poem,
possibly for joy.
It would hiss.
--Dave Bonta
2 comments:
Thanks for liking this. I'd forgotten all about it. (Which is one of the hazards of creative blogging: I'm too focused on the next post or poem to remember what I wrote last week, let alone last year.)
Dave,
Thanks for writing it! Wow, how did you find me so fast?
I know what you mean about the hazards of creative blogging--I wrote a sonnet a day for a year, some terrible, some okay, some even publishable, but I couldn't remember all of them if asked. Your Bigfoot poem is a good one, though--I love the shift in focus from the monster to what the monster would be seeing, experiencing. And of course the wonderful language.
Thanks for commenting--I'm glad this site isn't entirely dead. :)
If you ever want to talk poetry, I'm at sstandridge[at]gmail[dot]com.
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