Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Poetry appreciation corner
Anyhow, here's a poem from the anthology:
At night the fighter planes circle
and I look at the yellowed corner of my ceiling
where the dead mosquito hangs
and remember last summer's fear of disease -
bearing bugs, the whoosh of mosquito trucks,
and my favorite Post headline LET US SPRAY.
Lately I'm afraid of all sounds and the lack of sounds.
News voices, guarding reactors -- my daughter
hates the news, why is she watching?
And where have the backyard birds gone?
The yo babay mo-fo boom chicka Jersey cars
don't blast around my block trying to park.
We'll never go back. It's so strange to be caught
in history, to be making history after just making loads
of unused imaginary money, men in blue jackets shouted,
traded, and it's gone and it's okay but I don't want to die.
I hope God is circling up there with those planes.
Patti was a good person and she died.
God is probably passed out somewhere warm and dark,
still sleeping off his whole world, seven day binge
and it's just us, warring unhinged teenagers
trashing this big beautiful park.
-- Shelley Stenhouse