Sundry Views of Poetry

Throughout April, National Poetry Month, I kept a running catalog of daily ideas— quick impressions, thirty lines for later use.

— the arch of a crescent moon

— the crackling of a grackle’s call, midmorning

— the cliché of the arc of a crescent moon descending low on the lip of the horizon

— mid-day light pouring from an empty pitcher

— the arch of a crescent moon crossing a window

— a plague of thirteen grackles gathered midmorning in full congregation

— the distance between the window and the yellow arch of the crescent moon

— the arch of a crescent moon crossing a cracked bedroom window

— the crescent moon like a thief pausing beside a cracked bedroom window

— the silence held tightly by an infant as it sleeps, small hands uncurling

— the moon slipping like a thief through a cracked window into a bedroom

— the scent of a baby damp from its bath

— the moon as it stands at the foot of your bed, glancing down

— the quiet sounds of a baby suckling its bottle at three in the morning

— a sudden deer leaping across a dirt back road, flinging itself across the car’s headlights, into the side ditch of darkness, shaking my life awake, pulsing wildly within my chest

— the path of an elderly man pushing his electric-blue walker down side streets, looking like a personification of winter in ragged clothing

— his Whitman-white beard falling to his chest, his bamboo braided hat with a wide-brim pulled out against the rising morning sun

— a bitter-sweet cup of coffee, bottom of the pot, leaving a ring of black grit at the base of the mug

— a book opened to a blank page

— the slow drag of a siren slipping down the highway at night

— the snap of a match igniting

— a woman in her thirties smoking one last cigarette, pulling the sensation deep into her memory

— in the evening, the scent of gardenias pool at your knees like memories

— interlocking rings of water left to dry on a kitchen countertop

— the arch of fat bridging over the waistline of a middle-aged man as he pulls a fresh shirt over his shoulders

— the nicotine stains on her nails raising up recollections of her grandmother’s hands

— a wrinkled corpse rolling over in the dust bed of his coffin

— in a splinter of afternoon, a clear glass vase with fading paper magnolias

— the pull of past impressions after watching chimney swifts arc over gravel driveways at twilight

— the manner insomnia clings to the body, as a young boy with a clutch of thirty dried marigolds in his two hands


  1. where do I start? There are true riches here. You have touched such a deep vein within with this list of images. I am greedy for this - a surfeit of words and images, feelings and ideas. I am going to sit this afternoon and write my own list - see where it takes me... thanks.
    PS Few things happening my end have led to a bit of a blogging hiatus - I hadn't forgotten your blog! But I have a new (and better) job. One which brings term-time working (65 days annual leave a year) and a £13K pay rise. Climbing that greasy pool means I have landed on my feet...

  2. Yes, I understand. March-April-May were chaotic on a number of levels this year. To make matters worse, this month we put the house up for sale. Fortunately summer terms are less stressful, leaving me with some hours for both Brendan and then some for my self. Which means I need to go out into the blog-sphere and re-connect with everyone again.

    Congrats on the new job-- wonderful news!


Post a Comment

Popular Posts