11-28-2013, 05:19 AM
thanks to tectak
So help me, life, I may still make it to the end.
- Howard Nemerov, Thanksgrieving
Above me as I walked home the streetlights shone
through the leaves of autumnal maples
and I wondered,
how could one not regret? [=2]
They shimmered bright and red, echoes of the sun
filtered through the chaotically colored canopy.
My hands were just becoming cold
with that first faint whisper of a chill
on its way, weeks away,
with a prescient remembrance of winters past.
Once in a blizzard in Coney Island on Christmas day
we walked far out onto the pier,
black waves roiling inaudibly under the whistling wind,
barely visible beneath the driving white,
the air itself become a being,
the snowflakes small and hard and dry,
cold sand against our cheeks.
Translated onto the frigidity, shimmering surreally,
just outside our vision as we hunched against the gales,
the Puerto Ricans are dancing still,
bare feet caressing the boards with a steady salsa beat,
and the Mexicans are selling Coronas for a dollar
from a cooler in a big red cart,
and a man with a painted beard and a painted poodle
walks by in a wedding dress streaked with paint,
and out on the broad expanse of beach every speck of sand
demands a child of its own to walk on it
or dig in it or shovel it aside,
and the Indian women are letting their bright saris
whip up from their shoulders like fire.
Memory in every moment.
What have we not done before? [=2]
What will we not miss? [=2]
Present in those quietly rustling leaves
is the promise of shifting eddies of snow
on the stark, silent beaches,
blowing in a day made dark before dusk,
whirling around and around, endlessly around.
***
So help me, life, I may still make it to the end. - Howard Nemerov, 'Thanksgrieving'
Above me as I walked home the streetlights shone
through the leaves of autumnal maples
and I wondered,
how could one not regret? [=2]
They shimmered bright and red, echoes of the sun,
filtered through the chaotically colored canopy.
My hands were just becoming cold
with that first faint whisper of a chill
on its way, weeks away,
with a prescient memory of winters past.
Once in a blizzard in Coney Island on Christmas day
we walked far out onto the pier,
black waves rolling inaudibly under the whistle of the wind,
barely visible beneath the driving white,
the air itself become a being.
The snowflakes small and hard and dry,
cold sand against our cheeks.
Translated onto the frigidity, shimmering unreally,
just outside our vision as we hunched against the wind,
the Puerto Ricans are dancing still,
bare feet caressing the boards with a steady salsa beat,
and the Mexicans are selling Coronas for a dollar
from a cooler in a big red cart,
and a man with a painted beard and a painted poodle
walks by in a wedding dress streaked with paint,
and out on the beach it is as if every speck of sand
must have its own child to walk on it
or dig in it or shovel it aside,
and the Indian women are letting their bright saris
whip up from their shoulders like fire,
and the crowds are surging in from every neighborhood
for which the summer pleasures must come cheap.
Memory in every moment.
What have we not done before? [=2]
What will we not miss? [=2]
Present in those quietly rustling leaves
is the promise of shifting eddies of snow
on the stark, silent beaches,
blowing in a day made dark before dusk,
spinning around and around, endlessly around.
***
first draft of a new poem, I welcome any and all feedback! NB the questions are supposed to be indented, and from the formatting notes post I thought ([=2]) should do that, but apparently not, given that the lines are (1) not indenting, and (2) not hiding the [=2]
So help me, life, I may still make it to the end.
- Howard Nemerov, Thanksgrieving
Above me as I walked home the streetlights shone
through the leaves of autumnal maples
and I wondered,
how could one not regret? [=2]
They shimmered bright and red, echoes of the sun
filtered through the chaotically colored canopy.
My hands were just becoming cold
with that first faint whisper of a chill
on its way, weeks away,
with a prescient remembrance of winters past.
Once in a blizzard in Coney Island on Christmas day
we walked far out onto the pier,
black waves roiling inaudibly under the whistling wind,
barely visible beneath the driving white,
the air itself become a being,
the snowflakes small and hard and dry,
cold sand against our cheeks.
Translated onto the frigidity, shimmering surreally,
just outside our vision as we hunched against the gales,
the Puerto Ricans are dancing still,
bare feet caressing the boards with a steady salsa beat,
and the Mexicans are selling Coronas for a dollar
from a cooler in a big red cart,
and a man with a painted beard and a painted poodle
walks by in a wedding dress streaked with paint,
and out on the broad expanse of beach every speck of sand
demands a child of its own to walk on it
or dig in it or shovel it aside,
and the Indian women are letting their bright saris
whip up from their shoulders like fire.
Memory in every moment.
What have we not done before? [=2]
What will we not miss? [=2]
Present in those quietly rustling leaves
is the promise of shifting eddies of snow
on the stark, silent beaches,
blowing in a day made dark before dusk,
whirling around and around, endlessly around.
***
So help me, life, I may still make it to the end. - Howard Nemerov, 'Thanksgrieving'
Above me as I walked home the streetlights shone
through the leaves of autumnal maples
and I wondered,
how could one not regret? [=2]
They shimmered bright and red, echoes of the sun,
filtered through the chaotically colored canopy.
My hands were just becoming cold
with that first faint whisper of a chill
on its way, weeks away,
with a prescient memory of winters past.
Once in a blizzard in Coney Island on Christmas day
we walked far out onto the pier,
black waves rolling inaudibly under the whistle of the wind,
barely visible beneath the driving white,
the air itself become a being.
The snowflakes small and hard and dry,
cold sand against our cheeks.
Translated onto the frigidity, shimmering unreally,
just outside our vision as we hunched against the wind,
the Puerto Ricans are dancing still,
bare feet caressing the boards with a steady salsa beat,
and the Mexicans are selling Coronas for a dollar
from a cooler in a big red cart,
and a man with a painted beard and a painted poodle
walks by in a wedding dress streaked with paint,
and out on the beach it is as if every speck of sand
must have its own child to walk on it
or dig in it or shovel it aside,
and the Indian women are letting their bright saris
whip up from their shoulders like fire,
and the crowds are surging in from every neighborhood
for which the summer pleasures must come cheap.
Memory in every moment.
What have we not done before? [=2]
What will we not miss? [=2]
Present in those quietly rustling leaves
is the promise of shifting eddies of snow
on the stark, silent beaches,
blowing in a day made dark before dusk,
spinning around and around, endlessly around.
***
first draft of a new poem, I welcome any and all feedback! NB the questions are supposed to be indented, and from the formatting notes post I thought ([=2]) should do that, but apparently not, given that the lines are (1) not indenting, and (2) not hiding the [=2]
