We feel the volt inside our veins,
inside the vines, inside the rain,
and through the capillaries of
a tree. We feel the pulse above
in storms, vibrato of thunder,
the whispering rhythms of a river,
magnetic currents in the earth,
the alternating flow of breath,
the push of tides, reversing air
from caves, dilating hum and dance
of bees, the chant of auctioneer.
All oscillate together, or
they seem to, in this play of chance,
beneath the stars' indifference.
The light pours
on to me, spraying
everywhere like
a spoon in the
sink, concave up.
No wait, that
can’t be right.
It’s ribbon candy,
a thrown confection
shattering against
countenance. Or
it’s the air that
surrounds us,
clandestine,
an unimpressive
clay we indent.
My sister flipped through a #rupikaur poetry book and told me to tell her when to stop. This is the poem it landed on. Felt very appropriate for me as an arospec person.
“The poem upon
which you look, was
never a poet”,
I scoffed. Were
everything to me
at the expense of
me, I might never
not know that I
unsee the mote
again and again.
Mind you, it’s of
mine mind’s eye to
shun the invisible,
an irony of lids
almost squeezed
as tightly as
my fists
Today in Labor History September 9, 1918: Scottish & Anzac troops at the Etaples army base launched a successful five-day mutiny against harsh treatment and bad conditions by attacking the military police and carrying out daily demonstrations. Siegfried Sassoon described the terrible conditions in his poem "Base Details." English writer Vera Brittain described the atmosphere in her book “Testament of Youth.” William Allison and John Fairley wrote about it in their 1978 book, “The Monocled Mutineer.”
Squeaking
on rusting axles,
basepair carts
are dragged by
wild horses
over variant
and knobby
cobblestones.
Full bottles of
cellular cure-alls,
clinking in their
dusty crates,
are ready for
consumption.
What hunched
bogeyman
snaps the reins
of your
familiarity?
