Tom Montag

THE RECENT DEVASTATION
(December 31, 2004)


I have not written of the recent
Devastation. It has gone beyond
All understanding. I cannot find
The point of stillness which could contain

Such a singular enormity.
I would only offend, saying "This
Is one more proof there is no God;" or
"If there is a God, I want nothing

To do with such a monster." It is
Sun and sound I believe in, earth, wind,
Water, and star dust wishing to be
Seed again. Seed is our only hope.

We are blown dust, yes; we are the stuff
Of stars. Won't we let them comfort us?


Originally published at THE MIDDLEWESTERNER

American Life in Poetry: Column 013

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Birthdays, especially those which mark the passage of a decade, are occasions not only for celebration, but for reflection. In "Turning Forty," Ohio poet Kevin Griffith conveys a confusion of sentiments. The speaker feels a sense of peace at forty, but recalls a more powerful, more confident time in his life.


Turning Forty

At times it's like there is a small planet
inside me. And on this planet,
there are many small wars, yet none
big enough to make a real difference.
The major countries--mind and heart--have
called a truce for now. If this planet had a ruler,
no one remembers him well. All
decisions are made by committee.
Yet there are a few pictures of the old dictator--
how youthful he looked on his big horse,
how bright his eyes.
He was ready to conquer the world.


Reprinted from "Cooweescoowee, A Journal of Arts and Letters," by permission of the author, whose most recent book is "Paradise Refunded" (Backwaters Press, 1998). Poem copyright 2004 by Kevin Griffith. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

by Susan Elbe

The Summers, Like Tomatoes

Chicago, 1958

Just before night cracks its dark husk and spills into light, the night shift from Campbell’s Soup factory punches out. In a slow ferment of August heat, Black men at the bus stop, stewed down and shining with sweat, glow like foil in the haze of streetlights. Flicking their Zippos to Camels, they inhale blue smoke to scour the sharp taste of acid from their tongues.

The great factory boilers ka-chunk and hiss white steam. Eighteen-wheelers downshift and ease around corners, their brakes whistling under the weight of love fruit, its acrid perfume settling in our damp sheets and skin, oiling the haywire gears of our dreams.

First appeared in Atlanta Review (Winter, 2003)

by Wilda Morris

Night Stand


Jane Kenyon thinks
she is dead. She
writes no more
poetry. Leukemia,
not melancholy,
dragged her away.
But she sits
beside my bed,
whispers in my ear
of cows in the snow,
cats by the stove,
rock, leaf, bird song,
love, death, lies,
the silver thimble
and the medicine jar.
All night she begs
me to read aloud.

Published in SecondWind,
No. 4 (Winter 2004).

by Susan Elbe

White-Radish Moon


The heart, reckless and obsessed,
is capable of large deeds,
but always has to choose.


This or that. Now or never.


Like the white-radish moon
that dangles over rooftops
each night, the heart
haggles--stingy meniscus
or a clamor of light.




First appeared in Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem (Vol. XIII, No. 2)
and in Light Made from Nothing (Parallel Press)