18 I 2003 - 20:41 - verba43

It's that Alchera time of month again -- I'm a little healthier now, having abandoned all efforts at the application for the summer program I don't want to do, and that's how this got written. What I ended up writing started from a morning, see, when I got up at 5 AM and pulled down the blinds. I recently switched rooms, so that my window now faces east, to the dawn, instead of the north, and on that morning the entire sky was glowing a bright blue, interrupted only by purple clouds. It was strangely beautiful, and yet it terrified me -- something was wrong, perhaps it was the colors of everything, and I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide somewhere. Neither the day that followed, nor anything after that, could shake that feeling, and after mulling over it a bit, I thought I might be able to make something of that sight.

It's funny -- I thought I was going to do the essay topic again, and then this came out of itself. I'll note that Shostakovich 15 helped a lot -- the night after I heard the piece, I was finally able to write something I felt halfway happy with. Only halfway happy, because there are still quite a few lines giving me trouble -- I'm hoping that putting it up will give me enough stimulus to fix them. (Hmm, why'd I use that word? Maybe I've been hearing a little too much about 'economic stimulus' recently.) We'll see what happens.

Here's the topic:

No title.

The glowing dawn sets forth
with purple clouds that threaten the air,
thick with the thrill of
Something about to happen --
a storm, or the sudden return
of floods to the churches and stores
lain empty a fortnight --
but it will storm (as the sky dwarfs
the affairs of men, who after all
so easily shrink in the gaping blue
to the tap of footfalls on pavement,
to shadows lengthening in streetlights):

Long-dreaded, born of Alaska to fill
the silence the lake-ducks inhabit
(preferring to while the days
searching for tourists or stirring the dark-green waters),
the columns move in from the north,
leaping with ease over violent spray
in the strait, to pour and cleanse
the streets of dead trees by the gutter.
Under their touch the hillsides awake,
groan, process to the sea.

In the absolute stillness of dark
the winds steal the moon; the rains
come down on the roof and suggest,
everywhere, drums.