THE POETRY CHALLENGE
Who writes THE BEST POETRY
in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod
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THE POETRY CHALLENGE Who writes THE BEST POETRY in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod |
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A PERPETUAL CALENDAR OF POEMS Winter Rondeau One Gray Gull Resurrection Wetlands off Porpoise Channel First Season’s Swim It’s July A String of Pelicans September Tanka October November Northern Pine
1. January: For the New Year One year overtakes another like a shadow across the moon. Tired or not, we stay awake singing out of tune.. We watch the fall of a giant ball, the TV picture flickering: Janus, that two-faced Roman, leads us in the ritual.
2. February: Winter Rondeau It’s snowing sheets of paper-- flakes parachuting down. (4 p.m., they’ve forecast for two inches.) Late winter cold front moving in-- a metrological “happening.” (8 p.m., five inches in the forecast.) And though I’m truly tired of winter-- would kill for spring (12 midnight, a foot or more) This Northeaster is a captivating thing-- (8 a.m., snowed in!)
3. March: One Gray Gull One gray gull brave March gusts in a tar lot by the river. Head cocked, he eyes me as I throw him crumbs. His feathers--light gray of wing, white and black tail struts, head whiter than snowflakes punctuating the afternoon--assure me he's a new bird, but already wise to ways of getting lunch. And I know, as surely as the wind catches him lofting the narrow Peconic to find another soul bearing him bread, that I, too, can survive into a better season.
4. April: Resurrection One long, cold day of rain and spring resists no longer-- the young chartreuse of maples, the calve-high saw grass beside the road. Now skeletal remains of oaks flesh out with drooping blossoms, vernal promises that our spirits, like the temperatures will also rise. 5. May: Wetlands off Porpoise Channel On a marshy point a half-mile out toward Porpoise Channel, a couple picks their way through colorless cord grass toward a tidal pool. Silently, they bend and disappear in hip-high thatch, looking for what? Are they two naturalists on a spree, out to discover the roots of spring? Or, City people unaware how deep they could sink in? Water rushing past them, surrounds them with cold, gray mud. The man, emerging from high grass, reveals iridescent orange hip boots-- two jewels shining in the midday sun.
6. June: First Season’s Swim You rush the water ignoring rocks, in your no-frills tank suit and rubber cap designed for less resistance. No pause to acclimate to cold-- your launched with a flutter of kicks, strokes as smooth and rhythmic as a paddlewheel, so low in the water you are nearly hidden, so fast you are a speck in minutes, visible only with an effort by those you’ve left behind. 7. It’s July In America, where we don't believe in public nudity women compete to wear smaller and smaller strips of cloth and call them bathing suits, I admire the all-but-naked young woman buying ice cream. "What are you staring at?" she snaps. "Excuse me," I say, "but your vanilla is melting down your sun tan."
8. August: A String of Pelicans A string of 10 gray pelicans glides a straight line south on AIA along Daytona Beach where a placid sea edges up hard sand to cleanse the beach of car tracks, compete with gulls and pipers to erase all signs of snacks, embracing a single, evening bather. 92 degrees, dusk, late summer and the motor of a beach bike heading for late supper, simmers the evening in sounds. 9. September Tanka Through prosceniums of clouds a follow-spot sun shines on maples costumed red and orange-- a fall extravaganza.
10. October For roses, yet another bloom-- October warmth beneath a harvest moon. 11. November November paints in grays, mid-afternoon a patchwork of low clouds silhouetting leafless maples, filtering the green from pitch pines. Along the roadside, concrete and stucco, house boards even bricks turn gray, as if fall has passed away and November is in mourning. A cold rush of air disappears the last remaining oak leaves.
12. December: Northern Pine No need to decorate you. Your green is enough. You've stayed alive to grow--all as the house; taller than the chimney; taller, even, than the TV antenna (by one spindly branch). Evergreen thank you for staying green and for not having flashing Christmas lights.
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