By John Grey
The Fate Of The Poem
I let it go and the wind took it, or was that the mail. It had a thousand mile trek ahead of it through six states and who knows how much rain soaked it, how many dogs chewed it, which spotty teenage girl mistook it for a love letter from a high school quarterback. All I know is it was off my property and out into the world, the name on the envelope just an excuse for it to run with the bulls, ride with the cowboys, or help flame the fires on a cold night in hell. Poem, you dare call it. May as well refer to it as an intestine, or a decree nisi, or the year 1993. Better beware, for there's so many more where it came from. Its creation falls back on me. But its fate is in the journey's hands.
My Presence In The Woods
I am a series of false alarms. Startled birds soar skyward as if I am a two-legged ground-dwelling raptor. A hare, in fear of my invisible rifle, bounces to safety in triple time. A fox goes all foxy on me, slips into the nearby brush. A snake pivots, threatens for a moment, before slithering away. I am as harmless as the breeze. But I look like an ill wind.
These locomotive tracks haven’t seen a train in fifty years or more. They’re rusted a dull brown. The ballast is scattered. And rail ends, is nowhere to be found for a hundred yards or so. then starts up again. It should be technology’s graveyard but my imagination’s bringing it to life again. Any moment now, a train could be headed my way. I follow the trail into the woods. They’re just thick enough to block out the distant traffic noise. But there’s enough woods for a bear maybe, a herd of deer, even Hawkeye, Chingachgook and Uncas to be roaming. There’s a pond hereabouts. Like a magician, I can turn it into a lake or even an inland sea. And this clearing is surely an old New England village. There’s a woman with an A burnt into her breast who’s the center of much scandal. Then it’s back to these railway lines. Their destinations have faded but only if I think in real time. And sometimes I don’t. That’s when they take me places.
Mornings At The Pond
The pond is smooth and still enough to float Millais’ Ophelia. Shadows of oak and elm stripe the banks. Light drapes liquid beads across lily pads. Dragon-flies beat their wings into a low buzz. An egret stalks the peewee piscatory population. A frog plops. Three turtles bask. The slithering snake is as unthreatening as the breeze. But there’s more. Below the surface, under rocks, in shoreline tunnels, there’s always more. To see it through my eyes is to not know the half of it.
Don’t Let Appearances Mislead You
I’m resting under the old oak. Once again it offers me shade from the searing summer heat. I’m relaxed. Gathering strength. More purposeful than what you’d imagine just be looking at me. Any moment now, I could rise to my feet, go out and act on it, say what needs to be said, fix what requires fixing, take one thing down, put up another, cut down, meld together, rescue, capture. haul and hinder, give and take back. Yes, with my eyes closed, back against trunk, you could mistake me for a do-nothing. But I’m a man of action. And, at the very moment, when action’s not required.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Red Weather. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Open Ceilings.
2 thoughts on “The Fate of the Poem and Other Poems”
Don’t let appearances mislead you:
Beautifully crafted poem. The last 3 lines are the punch lines. Love the subtle humour.