Summer #1
On arriving at Kenyon College - the birds and the wind and the relentless sun seems to pause.
I really did mean to post some stuff this past month, but it has just been so loud and wirey. 27 days. Or 28, but who’s counting. It is a Thursday. Thursdays remain the same.
Inner Floridian Comes Out When I Write About Hurricanes1
Do you build a wall around yourself & call it the land? The world outside keeps spinning so fast. If only all the world was a mirror, & all the people just reflections of yourself. No one can hear me right now, and in this moment, I think this is a good thing. There are no rules in a hurricane, a swirling cacophony of winds that seems to change in a heartbeat - I cannot see past the shadows but I hear it. I hear it. Regardless, the first rule is to become the world, become a mirror, & step into the path of the storm hoping it will see itself in you & take you along with it. Do mirrors tend to shatter under heavy winds? Quick Google search how strong is glass. The first rule is the last rule & the last is the first. Once you step inside the storm, the world at once seems to slow to a halt. Do hurricanes tend to carry sound? I always seem to hear my name, whispering through the wind.
Bird Road2
That bird is screaming relentlessly Giving no respect to moss-grown Stones, counting the dead. Does he know The worms he eats in the morning light In turn ate from those here, under blankets of rock And dirt. The cycle continues & it continues so For the tree, the grasses, the thousand ants With their crumbs of life. This life here, in all, its Sap & maplewood, stones & acorns, footprints & whispers Moves on with the dead, that bird keeps on screaming, Perhaps he is also mourning.
Standstill3
Headstone inscriptions worn away By the constant beating of the wind And dust that calls itself time Bringing with it rains That feed the roots underneath - Winter starts to arrive - and in This moment, the world lets Out a shaky breath & we Are at a standstill: like a leaf, On the brink of falling off the tree.
I wrote Inner Floridian this morning, actually, in response to a prompt from Paige Webb, my amazing, amazing instructor at Kenyon Young Writers. We were asked to compile a list of situations that are, in reality, “games” (in reference to Keith Wilson’s poem The Game). From my list, I chose to write about the one that felt truest to me - trying to talk to guys without being seen as odd. Emphasis on the guys. Somewhere along the way, I got distracted, and my focus shifted to hurricanes, but my point still stands. It always does.
I sat at a cemetery and listened. It’s a great therapy. Try before you deny.
See above.