I’m working on a new poem. Trying to do it in a different style. This is all I have so far. I also know how it’s going to end, more or less. I just need a middle, haha, this is how it always happens. And yes, I’m doing this instead of working on finding a PhD thesis project or working on my current project or doing anything else that could possibly set myself up for a career. Yep. Hurts a little when I think about it.
When Seamus Heaney came to read in Harvard Square
the heat, by then in its third day,
was all anybody could talk about.
So thin-skinned and still mostly children then,
we hid away,
those first fragmented days,
among dark shelving in backs of book shops,
our hands smelling of dust and wet pages,
and listened to the voices
echo themselves and each other
whether it was a thing that
the wind blew in or maybe it
descended wholesale from the sky
or if somewhere, an explorer deep underground had
raised his shovel high
and struck open an ancient vault, and out,
out poured the lost heat of an earlier earth,
with memory only of chaos and creation,
and rather than having been carried by the wind
or conjured by heaven
up it welled through the pores and cracks in the earth,
and the city, seeing this,
took one deep breath and held it.