After Summer Rain

Today's poem, based on an early memory, could easily have been the title poem in my first published collection, Chance of Rain (Finishing Line Press, 2003). Instead, it quietly took its place among the others.

"After Summer Rain," with its starring character, a tiny bug swimming in a laundry tub which had filled with rain water, did become the inspiration for the cover illustration, designed by my son, Alan.

In the poem itself, I like what's happening ... the relationship between this tiny bug, which has suddenly appeared, and this "young man" who is drawn to it, pondering "what it might become, where it might go," questions he had barely asked himself.

Selection of a title poem, in the instance of this first collection, seemed obvious to me, albeit with overtones of designating a favorite child. That honor had to go to "Chance of Rain, my "lucky poem."

Regular readers of my online journal, my home page, or my free e-mailed weekly newsletter ("Squiggles & Giggles," remember? And it went only to those who had asked to receive it ... but, sorry, AOL put a stop to S&G, adventures of The Little Red Car, etc.) ... well, these people know that story about eight lines being discovered in the middle of a longer poem when an alert editor at Capper's spotted them, liked them, suggested that we keep them and my title.

I quickly agreed, and "Chance of Rain" became my first poem accepted for publication. Thus began this great adventure.

But today I'd like to share that other poem:

AFTER SUMMER RAIN

When the storm passed

and the sediment settled

in the tub so recently

sitting empty beneath

the downspout, a tiny bug,

exploring its new world,

memorizing the boundaries,

looking for others,

or savoring the solitude

of this galvanized galaxy,

swam to and fro,

oblivious of the young man

pausing to watch,

puzzled over its sudden

coming to be there,

pondering what it might

become, where it might go,

doubly perplexing because

he had barely posed such

questions about himself.

© 1998

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review)

***

Today's word: exploring

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Oh, thank you, Helen, for those observations ... I think, however, as I often say ... so much depends on what the reader brings to the poem. I was particularly taken by your noting that you had read "After Summer Rain" several times ... and had found new images, new thoughts with each reading. That speaks so much to your ability to let the poem draw you into its meaning, to let it paint new pictures with each visit ... and it says so much more of the reader ... in a very positive way ... than of the person who wrote the poem, I think.

I do try to avoid inducing whiplash with sudden turns, Magran, but I do like an occasional introduction of an unexpected element. It helps to keep the read pressing on, looking for what lurks beyond the next turn. And I like your own image of that wooden half-barrel, too.

Let There Be Light

I haven't the foggiest idea of what I was watching on the TV that July evening ... just sitting, vegetating in front of the tube, when ... suddenly ... I was alone with my thoughts.

What a jolt that was.

I thought at first a fuse had blown ... but I fumbled down the stairs, looked up and down the street ... and arrived at a slightly different verdict: We had a bigger problem.

This is definitely a summer poem ... about a summer problem ... but it came to mind when I got home after an enjoyable evening of listening to an author describe her adventures with first, second and third novels ...

I opened an e-mail from a friend and fellow-writer in Kansas ... who was expecting to lose power at any moment.

"Over 30,000 already without lights here in this area," she said. "I doubt that I will be online much longer. Don't worry ... we'll be fine ... just have to ride it out!"

Her rather frightening situation brought to mind "Let There Be Light," though there is little similarity between her situation and the relatively minor inconvenience that I was experiencing on that steamy summer night.

When I looked up my poem, I noticed that the original version had ended: "powerless again/ in the hands/ of the trusted/ utility company."

Given the benefit of the perspective provided by time, I think I may have been taking an unfair swipe at the utility company then. What do you think ... original ending ... or a modified version?

Of course, the question is relatively moot, once the poem has been "abandoned" to a publisher ... but I was just wondering ...

The poem:

LET THERE BE LIGHT

In the hottest part

of summer,

in the darkest part

of night,

our reverie is torn asunder

as the picture we are watching

is swallowed by the tube,

accompanied

by a wheeze

that dies with a sigh deep

inside the air-conditioner,

and here we sit,

powerless again

in the hands

of the trusted

utility company.

© 1997

(originally published in Parnassus Literary Journal)

***

Today's word: powerless

Hello, Morning

During my working years, mornings were not my favorite time of day, largely because of the early hour at which my work days began, partly because of the pressures of work.

Ah, but retirement brought a change. Now I could sleep in, if I chose, and I could ... within certain limits ... set my own agenda for the remainder of the day.

So what did I do? Miracle of miracles, I started getting up early ... voluntarily ... and I found things to occupy my day ... a bit of art, a bit of writing, a bit of walking, a bit of watching the sun come creeping up over the horizon ... or watching it melting slowly into the western rim of the world.

The poem:

HELLO, MORNING

Early light

feels its way

across the top

of my fence,

gently warming

weary, weathered

boards, faint

yellow softness

spreading like

creamy frosting

on this new day.

© 1997

(originally published in Capper's)

***

Today's word: melting

Emergency Kit

I beg for particular patience from those who have seen today's poem before. It seems to have worked its way to the top again.

It's still a good little poem, I think ... a bit whimsical ... and I think we can use a sprinkling of whimsy with the world in which we live today.

Bear with me now, while I dust off a bit of history:

I started carrying a printout of one of my poems in response to the recurring question from acquaintances: "What are you writing these days?"

Carrying a single printout, I thought, was a simpler, a more efficient approach than going into detail about all of the things I was working on at the time (I seem to go riding off in all directions, but I do bring some of my projects to completion ... honest).

From there it was a short leap to the image of some poor motorist sitting somewhere on a dark, poemless road, hoping someone would come to the rescue ... and, ta-DA! ... there I would be, poem at the ready ...

I have one regret - I neglected to offer an alternative, like regular fill-ups of poetry before heading out on those lonely roads ... or, I suppose, simply keeping an eye on the poetry gauge ... or pulling into the nearest library - where the price is always right - to top off the poetry tank.

But if you do run out of poetry, just hang in there. I should be along soon.

Meanwhile:

EMERGENCY KIT

I always carry

a spare poem or two.

Who knows? I may

find a motorist

stranded, run out

of poetry somewhere

on a poemless road,

looking for rhyme,

if not reason,

in the scheme

of things, someone

in need of metaphor,

simile, structure,

a triolet, perhaps,

but mostly free verse,

free for the taking,

and this one's for you.

Enjoy. Pass it on.

© 1999

(originally published in Capper's)

Today's word: emergency

Clouds

Normally I prefer punctuation ... you know, those little road signs which tell us when to slow, yield, or stop ... in written matter. 

In this case, however, when I'd finished jotting some notes on a scrap of paper ... while sitting in a quiet room with a large picture window ... it occurred to me that what I'd written somehow reflected the clouds I'd been watching.
Left alone, I reasoned, that string of images, without any punctuation to tell the reader when to pause or stop, might present a different, changing, cloud-like poem with each reading.
I did a little tweaking, naturally, but pretty much left it as it had presented itself to me.
The result:


CLOUDS
They slide by
shaping opinions
on the fly
trailering
into one great convoy
heading east
dominating
the great blue
highway
slowing my thoughts
to a crawl
fleecing
me of ambition
stealing
my thunder
an elephant
a dog
a big-eared sheep
a parade
strike up
the band
© 2003
(from my first collection, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press, 2003)   

***

Today's word: fleecing

Beach Music

I grew up far from the ocean ... any ocean ... so the one time that I got to walk on a real ocean beach was ... to put it mildly ... a most memorable occasion.
Oh, I had glimpsed the ocean at the movies ... in books or magazines ... but never the real thing.
I think I was most impressed, when a face-to-face meeting finally came, with the immensity of it ... its power ... its beauty ... its music.
I tried to get some of that music in this little poem:

BEACH MUSIC
Waves come tumbling

onto the docile shore,
flinging foamy fingers
across the ochre plane.

Teeming with bubbles,
they search and settle,
soothingly diminuendo,
on a healing chord.

Eliciting a sigh
from pliant, sandy keys,
the fingers slide off
into the lap of the sea,
where joyous whitecaps
merrily urge them,
jostle and encourage them
to play it all again.
© 1998

(originally published in Capper's, now back for an encore appearance with one of my little watercolors)

***

Today's word:  joyous
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Thank you for stopping by, Helen ... twice ... and I do try to paint pictures with words, as well as with a brush. It would appear (blush-blush) that I succeeded this time.
Yes, Magran, I think the ocean is/wouldbe, as you say, an immense source of poetry ... if only I had more access to it. Meanwhile, I still have memories from that first stroll ... of pictures I've seen ... and even early memories of "listening to the ocean's roar" by means of a conch shell held to my young ear.

An Iowa Night

Time flies.

It seems such a short time ago that I was there in Iowa, participating in that study of biography ... but it was actually many years ago ...

We had come from all across the country that summer, people from various professions, gathering at the University of Iowa for an intensive study of biography.

I was one of the participants in that National Endowment for the Humanities seminar. I had looked forward to it as a means of escaping, if only briefly, a work situation with constantly demanding deadlines.

What could be better than to get far, far away from that, to focus on something entirely different?

Deadlines? Oh, we had those in the seminar ... every day. We had a mountain of reading material to cover, to digest, to discuss. It was definitely not playtime.

But it was valuable ... when I returned to work, and all these years later. It helped to steer me in the direction of more writing and, eventually, into what I'm still doing today, exploring the avenues of poetry and a bit of art.

Today's poem recalls one particular evening when we were invited out to the rural home of our seminar moderator.

I recall our standing on the porch ... but let's let the poem tell it:

AN IOWA NIGHT

Day's work done, we

gathered on a farm porch,

watching the lush, dark

corn trembling toward us

as rain slid

through the dusk.

No towering buildings

muffled the crumpling

thunder, no traffic

softened the sound

of plump drops spattering

thirsting shingles.

It was the velvet edge

of an Iowa night.

I have bridged back

to it many times, seeking

those faces, wondering

what happened next,

what the others became,

where they are now.

© 1997

(originally published in Midwest Poetry Review: also included in my first collection of poems, Chance of Rain, published by Finishing Line Press in 2003)

***

Today's word: wondering