Flash XI—In Memorium

Because there's nothing I could write that comes close to this:

What Kind of Times Are These

By Adrienne Rich

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled

this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

Thank you, Ms. Rich.

I Am Not A Poet

Poetry appeals to me for so many reasons—such a disciplined form, the world stripped down to only the essential words—but it's not my form; I'm too verbose, I think.

In observance of National Poetry Month, however, I figured I'd share a poem I wrote a few years ago for a class.

✤ ✤ ✤

For Marian Fisher, 13

Only sunlight illuminated the room,
the dust from the chalkboard sparkling
as it settled on the wood softened
by a hundred sweepings, the thousand footsteps
of the children rising to their lessons.
Five times
one, two, three, four, five
ghosted in the milky gray sweep of erasure.

On the blue sky day they were called
to reciting, they were called
to their reading, they were called to their sums.
Always ready,
Marian said “Me first.”

The milk had been delivered,
his children hugged tight then
released with words of love. Then he
went to work, backed his truck in
for the delivery
of his unimaginable emptiness.

Out of the blue sky day came
the checklist, the wire
the guns, the strange length of wood
and his unimaginable emptiness.

Only sunlight illuminated the room,
the scent of fear quavering
as it settled on the wood softened
by a hundred sweepings, the thousand footsteps
of the children rising to their lessons,
Two lines,
one assembled for dismissal, one assembled in
a row by the chalkboard
with its milky gray sweep of erasure.

Out in the blue sky day the police were called
to awaiting, they were called
to their duty, they were called to their guns.
Inside, ready,
Marian said, “me first.”

Five times
one, two, three, four, five
ghosted in the crimson red sweep of erasure
and his unimaginable emptiness.

✤ ✤ ✤

Here's a little more about Marian Fisher: http://www.marianfisher.com/