The Upshot of National Poetry Month

At the beginning of April, I decided to take Robert Lee Brewer's Poem A Day Challenge, and write a poem every single day during the month.

Well, I gave it a shot, but after two weeks I had to shift my attention to my students' research papers. I have roughly forty students, each of whom was required to submit two drafts of a 12-15 page paper.

That, my friends, is one hell of a lot of "based off of's" and "Michael Angelo's" -- not to mention all the "they's" and "it's" (and "itses") that don't appear to refer to anything specific. After slogging through this stuff, poetry seemed like a faint, pleasant childhood memory.

Nevertheless I wrote a few little ditties that I think are sort of acceptable, so I guess I'll just post them here.

In conclusion, April was a very busy month and a huge amount of changes were dealt with by a lot of people. Based off of this huge fact alone, one can see very clearly why PJ stopped righting pomes.


Spirit Level

It's an instrument designed to indicate
whether a surface is level (or plumb)
and as we know, all things must be plumb
or they won’t work right --
the door will hang crooked in the doorway
and your dishes will slide off the shelf
and smash into shards.

A good spirit level might be
an oblong of rosewood and copper
with a bead of yellow liquid (the spirit)
in the window, and if you're a very good leveler
you can lay your level directly
on top of a spirit and cry, begone!

For a vertical project (like a doorway
or a particularly tall spirit)
you might want to use a plumb bob,
which is a heavy metal doodad on a string.
The plumb bob should be heavy enough
not to bob on the surface,
but to plumb the depths.

The spirit level was invented in the 17th century
by a man named Melchisedech Thevenot.
He wrote a book called The Art of Swimming,
in which he described certain methods
of bobbing on the surface --
and remaining level -- while plumbing
the depths of the spirit.


Long Island

Where I was spawned like a fluke
in the waves off the flat south shore,
and tossed alive on the Freeport docks
by a drunken man from Captain Lou's fleet.
Where I swam in the blood-warm water
of Great South Bay, finning through
estuaries between grassy islands,
never losing sight of siding-covered Levitts
with extra pieces tacked on, above and behind,
or the gasoline bloom below
the Atlantic Beach Bridge, trucks rumbling
over me, spiked on the beak of a plover.


Love Poem

Some people are atheists.
There's nothing wrong with that, but it doesn't work for me.
I'm not stolid enough to take what's hurtling toward us all
.....-- illness, loss, pain, war, ravages visited
.....upon the innocent and undeserving,
.....let alone unfulfilling jobs and Republicans --
and have it all happening in a godless void to boot.

And I think loving you is something like believing in God.
I'm good at it -- abiding and humble.
I trust that you're there even when I get no response.
And just when I've convinced myself
that the resounding silence is my answer,
you manifest in the most surprising ways.