If I drove a car, it would
not have one. If
I had a baby, I would
try not to overindulge it.
If I built a cottage
near the ocean, I would
be careful not to ruin
the view. If I knew
the ending to a movie, I would
keep it to myself. If
I had a lover, I would
inevitably do just that
before it went too far.
Unfortunately.
Day Poems
Fever Dreams
Two turtles sleep
at the entrance
to a subway escalator
that only goes
up. Someone says
they’re hung
over. I don’t believe
him. Suddenly they show
their heads, then legs,
then crawl away. End
of scene—onto that subway
I only see
in dreams. Couldn’t recognize
who was riding
with me this time.
Could have been you.
Poetic Laryngitis
No cure till the verdict
is read aloud. Till her juror’s oath
is played out,
even a simple metaphor
can’t be
expressed. Nothing implied. All
images captured
must remain sealed
inside a jar
draped in red linen. Even fresh
rain transforming
into snow won’t force a leak.
Jury Duty
She’ll tell
you all about it
when the seal’s broken.
Channels
This is no Big Sur, Dingle
Peninsula, Wasque—
this is somewhere
in the middle. A river
that has starred
as the main character
in novels, caused cities to be
built, become a final stop
for the tormented
and despairing. It is a river
that should be frozen
by now. That only its fringes
cutting against its banks
are covered in a thin sheet
of ice is another story
that needs to be
told. And I’m no narrator
for the fresh or salt.
LaSalle Avenue
Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.
Beginning with Red
Light pollution
enhances her cravings
for the perfect
constellation, for an evening
spent outdoors
without fear. Each wave
lengthens or shrinks
to spell out
new acts of bravery
in a host of colors
beginning with red,
ending up yellow
just before it turns
green. Snow piled
on a skylight won’t last.
2011 in review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,500 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 42 trips to carry that many people.
Double-Sided Clock
I rearrange the furniture
in my head
to clear a path
to that alcove
of possibility. Poetry is
wayfinding
written in Braille
with lemon rind
and a candle burning
at each station.
Sandy Hook Light
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 