Exposure
March 18 2014
The lake thaws from the middle out.
Ice thins, and splits,
leads widen
fragments drift apart.
The action of waves
eating away
at the margins,
as the opening steadily enlarges
closer to land.
Overnight, a thin skim of ice re-forms,
next morning
shatters.
Until I can see open water from shore
cracks zig-zagging out,
shading my eyes
squinting hard.
And later, fully thawed.
When the lake is still cold enough to kill
in 3 minutes flat,
your throat clenched
hungering air,
heart racing faster
until it can't.
Cause of death
hypothermia, exposure,
a lack of respect
when the land has warmed
but water hasn't.
When ice floes, wind-driven
are piled, haphazardly
at the back of the bay.
A cool northern exposure,
where a small remnant of winter
hides out
almost to May.
When, on a shirt-sleeve day
a chilly breeze
from the ice-box of winter
sends shivers up my spine.
A pebble beach,
where small tongues
of smooth transparent ice
have formed in the shallows.
Water rises and falls
as if the lake were gently rocking,
washing over
then running off.
They gleam
in early morning light,
tinkle brightly
breaking.
I'm not sure descriptive poems like this engage the reader. At worst, you lose her one stanza in; at best, she never feels compelled to re-read. On the other hand, with words like "kill" and "death", I might have worked enough drama into this poem to make it move along. And there is also the first person narrator, which tends to pull the reader in with its feeling of intimacy and authenticity.
The view goes from macrocosm to miniature, which is what I like most of all: from straining to look all the way out to the middle of the lake, to looking down at his feet. I think the best poetry comes from close observation of small things. Here, it's tiny evanescent tongues of ice on a cold spring morning. (And probably way too early for me to be awake; but isn't that what we call poetic licence?!!)
The lake thaws from the middle out.
Ice thins, and splits,
leads widen
fragments drift apart.
The action of waves
eating away
at the margins,
as the opening steadily enlarges
closer to land.
Overnight, a thin skim of ice re-forms,
next morning
shatters.
Until I can see open water from shore
cracks zig-zagging out,
shading my eyes
squinting hard.
And later, fully thawed.
When the lake is still cold enough to kill
in 3 minutes flat,
your throat clenched
hungering air,
heart racing faster
until it can't.
Cause of death
hypothermia, exposure,
a lack of respect
when the land has warmed
but water hasn't.
When ice floes, wind-driven
are piled, haphazardly
at the back of the bay.
A cool northern exposure,
where a small remnant of winter
hides out
almost to May.
When, on a shirt-sleeve day
a chilly breeze
from the ice-box of winter
sends shivers up my spine.
A pebble beach,
where small tongues
of smooth transparent ice
have formed in the shallows.
Water rises and falls
as if the lake were gently rocking,
washing over
then running off.
They gleam
in early morning light,
tinkle brightly
breaking.
I'm not sure descriptive poems like this engage the reader. At worst, you lose her one stanza in; at best, she never feels compelled to re-read. On the other hand, with words like "kill" and "death", I might have worked enough drama into this poem to make it move along. And there is also the first person narrator, which tends to pull the reader in with its feeling of intimacy and authenticity.
The view goes from macrocosm to miniature, which is what I like most of all: from straining to look all the way out to the middle of the lake, to looking down at his feet. I think the best poetry comes from close observation of small things. Here, it's tiny evanescent tongues of ice on a cold spring morning. (And probably way too early for me to be awake; but isn't that what we call poetic licence?!!)
No comments:
Post a Comment