This is a poetry postcard that was originally published at Postal Poetry, which is now defunct. It was featured on February 25, 2009.
Update 10.20.10: Thanks to Dave Bonta, the Postal Poetry archive is back up at a new url and it looks better than ever. Here’s the link to “Time to Leave” along with the brief statement I wrote to accompany it. Go have a look around over there. There is truly amazing work to be found.
We communicated in images. Flickering moments on dueling monitors. Shoes on cobbled pavement. Clothes rustle in the wind. Wind? We both understand this thing, wind. The colors are suddenly blinding. I can’t even name them. The view of open parkland and a blue pond widens to almost 360 degrees. My stomach drops as the ground falls away, earth tumbling into a pit of sky, images bleeding off the monitors now. We’re flying again. It’s all she thinks about, the only thing she’ll show. I rip the cables from my temples. She flaps them from her wings. We stare at one another across the sterile distance of the research lab. Going nowhere. Again. A white feather floats on the air-conditioned current. We’re as alien and far apart as ever. Three feet away yet separated by species and the awkwardness of the now-severed connection with its illusion of understanding and love. Can she feel it too? She doesn’t blink, her avian eyes as incomprehensible as the machines humming in this lab. I glance at the security cameras and lean in. Please, I whisper, please. Don’t make me leave. I’ll show you everything. Outside, I hear engines and the wind of ten thousand wings beginning to flap.
A flight of egrets
glides toward the setting sun—
the moon rises.
—
This is for Big Tent Poetry’s challenge to write a haibun about travel and an encounter with an imaginary creature. I love haibun, though my approach has been intentionally nontraditional. I’d like to learn more, but I also like the notion of feeling my way into something new and playing with it a little bit like the way I’ll fiddle with a new instrument before attempting to learn how to play it.
I suppose this is why my haibun tend to read more like prose poems. Most of them actually start with the haiku, which tend to be pretty straightforward and traditional. I then write a prose poem piece that goes in a completely different direction. I often think of the prose piece as fictional process notes.
Sometimes I think I might just revise the haiku out completely and let the prose stand alone, but for now I like the way the haiku contrasts with the prose and grounds the charge, bringing things back to Earth. This Earth anyway.
Do you remember the playground
where children swarmed, climbing
the backbones of ancient leviathans?
A man sold half-eaten legends
from the debris of empire,
rusted machine guns in the basement.
(sign me up)
Indian bones and arrowheads
poke through packed earth,
fingers straining against thin cloth.
I suppose we all duck the evidence
in search of answers,
making our own sense from symbols
on scientific calculators.
(here is where we solved for x)
Upstairs, old men and women
chant themselves to sleep each night,
embellishing with cadenced recall
skirts and toys and sunny Saturdays.
I am full of red wires now,
redundant circuits, ticking louder.
(everything temporary sounds like forever)
Forged bank notes blow down an empty highway.
The first blue norther rolls down the plains.
Now comes the thunder.
—
This started from the wordle list at Big Tent Poetry.
How many snakes swim below
your forty feet of rain?
The park where we flew kites
lies below your fathoms.
Our kites become flying fish.
They break the surface of your lake
now filled with dislodged rattlesnakes.
Cars slow on the bridge.
It’s easy to get lost in this swift mystery
we once called sky.
So the airplanes fly a little higher now.
Beyond lowering clouds, their engines thrum,
toward El Paso, toward California.
I pick earthworms off the porch,
toss them writhing
back toward the wet grass.
Given time, you’ll fall apart.
When the headlights
struck the stars
and the radio de-tuned
to static songs,
the highway dropped
away and clouds
grew shapes across
the galaxies below my tires.
And though my hands
still gripped the wheel,
I was now a passenger.
This is the videopoem I made for “drylung” by Clayton Michaels. It comes from his chapbook, Watermark, winner of the 2010 qarrtsiluni chapbook contest.
About a month ago, Dave Bonta and Beth Adams, co-managing editors at qarrtsiluni asked if I would be interested in doing a video for one of the poems from Watermark. They sent the manuscript, which proved to be an embarrassment of riches. I read it a few times, went back and forth with a few and settled on “drylung.”
What will the world “look like when all the water leaves?” Last Summer we were on the tail end of a two-and-a-half year drought here in central Texas. The lakes were drying up. The aquifers were emptying. Austin and San Antonio were imposing harsh water use restrictions and through all those 105°F days, there was the underlying sense that this was the future. Those in the know—politicians and policymakers, the few who try to think long term—claim that water will be the issue in Texas in the 21st century.
Parts of Lake Travis that hadn’t seen the sun in decades were exposed, and docks and boats were marooned hundreds of yards inland. Everything shriveled as the ground compacted and cracked so slowly it could almost seem normal at times.
In October, the rains came and the drought ended. We had one of the wettest, coldest winters in a long time. Memory of such things is short and so water, or the lack thereof, was soon forgotten.
What will the world “look like when all the water leaves?” Mars.
Ever since I was a kid in the ’70s in Washington, DC where the Air & Space Museum was my favorite place, Mars has fascinated me. I can scroll endlessly through the images beamed back by NASA’s rovers. Mars is beautiful and stark. It is the subject of a few of my poems, one published earlier this year at qarrtsiluni and another here at Coyote Mercury. I’m even writing a novel (slowly, too slowly) set on Mars, that world from which all the water really has left (actually, it’s possibly still there, trapped below the surface in a layer of permafrost, but I digress).
Texas and Mars collided in “drylung.” In my mind, it sounded like prophecy such as one might hear between channels on a weather radio. This summer had been (it isn’t now) unusually mild. Mid-90s and regular rain. It was easy to forget the previous year. “drylung” forced memory and took me to Mars where ancient water likely flowed.
I thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to make this video. Thanks to Beth and Dave for inviting me to do this and for their suggestions on improving the final edit. Thanks to Clayton for his wonderful poem and reading and for allowing me to interpret his work like this.
Watermark will be published August 30th. You’ll be able to read it and listen to Clayton read his poems at watermarkpoems.com, and you can order it from Phoenicia Publishing. I’ve got a few of Phoenicia’s books, and they’re tip-top all the way and speaking as someone who’s had the privilege of reading Watermark, I recommend buying a copy. It’s an incredibly good read, the kind that makes me want to be a better writer.
Yesterday, whilst engaged in some offline analog projects, two literary sites were kind enough to publish some of my work.
The first, Poets for Living Waters, “a poetry action in response to the BP Gulf oil disaster,” featured 3 of my poems. The poems “A Necklace for the Goddess of the Empty Sea” (thanks for the prompt, Deb!), “The Desert Years,” and “Galveston, Last Summer” all appeared in slightly different form here at Coyote Mercury.
And, one of my micro poems, “The sun, threaded with clouds,” went up over at a handful of stones.
Thanks to the editors of these fine online journals for publishing these poems, and as always, have a look around. There is wonderful work to be found at both of these sites.
Three o’clock in the afternoon,
central Texas summer day,
over a hundred degrees out.
I know there will be no birds,
nothing but grackles and vultures.
I still go out, and I’m not surprised.
Only grackles seem to like this heat.
The other birds hold still like
knots in the trees, silent waiting for dusk,
trying to keep their colors from melting
into the brown grass and faded leaves.
Overhead a few vultures soar on
steady outstretched wings,
folding sky and letting it move
around and over them as they ride
thermals up to more temperate
atmospheric zones. Meanwhile,
the grackles and I enjoy the heat
until the other birds begin to stir
and it’s time for me to go home.