Thursday, April 30, 2009

on the last day

On the last day of national poetry month you're hearing from me. There are poets I wanted to introduce to you, poems I wanted to send out into the ether so that you too might taste their words on your tongue. They are delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I'll post them another time, in May or June or July. When spring has settled deeper into my bones. I'm fine. The funk has marinated a while and is soon to pass. Nothing to worry about. These are days when I think, and it's a good deep thinking way of being. I don't mind.

One of those poets I want to share is Stephen Dunn. He is amazing and lovely. He writes poetry that is the color of bruises.



But for now:



Thinking About Stephen Dunn

and tattered
mute angels no one has called upon in years
-Stephen Dunn, Landscape at the End of the Century

He writes about a landscape
at the end of the century
a place not barren enough for the likes of us
and yet too empty to hold an angel.
No foothold for the heavenly host.

I'm standing on grass and melancholy
influenza
recession
a post post-modern world
that is beyond the imagination of a poet

I was born in the last quarter of the last century
and if anything holds true it will be this:
I will live to see my daughter married
a girl grown older and then old
and then sometime in the middle of this
the twenty-first
I'll die

But not without begging the questions
of where I belong
of which era was mine
of why such a thing would ever seem to matter
much anyway

The angels aren't as patient.
They've moved on to another time
knowing that there will be room for them
there


(c) amy lynn romero, april 2009






5 comments:

Pickles and Dimes said...

I like that poem - a lot. I don't usually post huge copy & paste jobs in comments, but since you love poetry, I hope you don't mind. This is my favorite poem.

When We Two Parted
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well--
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.

Pickles and Dimes said...

Wait, wait, WAIT. Did YOU write this? Because that makes it 1000% more wonderful.

Whimsy said...

P&D -
Thank you for sharing your favorite. Perhaps others will share theirs? I'd love it. Poetry is food for the soul, as they say. And that little piece I offered, it was from me - a way to come out of hiding I guess.

M said...

Mmmmmm, my friend.

I think you know that we were born between eras, between and outside of time. These ages, these generations, they do not hold us. And how can we expect them to?

You are pure, concentrated talent. It's astonishing, even after all these years.

Eleanor Q. said...

I love your poetry month installments. You should make it a regular feature.