Monday, July 13, 2009

Inspiration, awakened.

Ever written one of those almost poems? They're the ones that exist without much prose or turns of phrase to speak of, but plenty of that good, old-fashioned intent? When I was back on that horse and poem writing for a good spell not long ago, this came out of me while on a trip to Louisiana. It captures something in it, so I hesitate to force any kind of structure or rewrite upon it; I've left it largely as it was written ... for now. No poems are ever really finished, right? So it's been said and so it'll be said again.


The humidity is like a blanket
even in this shadow, in this sunshine
so cool and sticky at once
always comforting enough
to stay beneath it

it feels like Panama, the place
I can recall mostly for the smiles
even more for the rain
and just once for the beach
the one with the hammock, surfing,
waves so faithfully on its shore

it all leads back to that first desire to sail
but not on crests, but to an elsewhere
a reality just beyond the present
the one so clouded by the more lucrative —
New Zealand, Thailand, Brazil,
even the Bahamas for one long second —
this place with the bananas
and Spanish so much past my own

it’s the land that wants me
if only to pen more thoughts like these.

There is that push inside again.
Who knew it would exist amongst
boiled red crawdads
and smashed road armadillos
in Louisiana?

— 5/10/09

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