Try, Part II

Back in November when we were still on the island, I wrote a post called Try about taking a leap of faith, about teaching, about poetry, and about failure.  I reread it tonight, and realized that I had never shown you the poem I mentioned in that post.  In fact, even though I am a poet by training and trade, I almost never post my poetry on The Magpie's Fancy.  Thought I'd post this one tonight just for the heck of it.  I wrote it after watching the Leonids meteor shower.  I won't explain it, because I hate when poets do that, but I will say that it's meant to be read aloud.  That first sentence is long and breathless because the speaker is completely overwhelmed with her thoughts.

When I write poetry or fiction, I love to imagine a speaker or character, and just let myself climb inside her mind and heart.  Please feel free to do the same.  

The Leonids

Meteor Shower, Peaks Island, Maine, November 17, 2009

How could we little heathens

have known

that the gods check their watches, 

that the skies over beaches

and horizons 

and channel crossings

where fishes know the old

rock formations carved by the glaciers

by heart--

how could we believe

that those skies

could flash

a matchstick’s scratch

and streams of fire

could rain down 

just like the old woodcuts

in bibles, the end of days?

Only, these sparks 

flying from Leo’s mane

don’t fall for us;

Christ, we nearly missed them,

so bleary from late shows 

and facebook, wrapped

in the worn quilts and scarves I knitted 

on insomniac nights long past.  

What can we make of this?  What 

can we enact, predict?

We gaze.  Stars require that.

Our necks tense.

Out in the channel, 

the markers flash like beer signs;

behind us the city is an odalisque,

a siren luring our eyes 

back to the horizon.

Treachery is everywhere.

Just south, Ram Island’s light

winks, jealous Ares, old

and endlessly erect--

does he ever grow tired

of protecting?  Even his lantern 

is weak, its power on loan

from Apollo.  How could he 

ever hope to compete?

In the end, he and the siren 

are no match for the streaks

of green and gold

that catch us, hold us cold

until their end, 

unbelievers

on the porch

alone in November 

beside the storm’s brink, 

on the edge of a waning crescent, 

waiting for the next

tiny speck

of the universe to fall

whether we blink

or not,

whether we ever

even look at all.