The PT prompt this week is simply the word rivers.
Rain
Without thunder,
twitching leaves
is the only sound
you make and
that is no sound at all.
Rain, so slight,
even the clouds
must be unaware
that you’ve come.
But you are persistent,
and I know
when you’re done
the featherless baby sparrows
born in the eaves
will be drowned, know
I will find one or two
beneath the drainpipe,
pressed into the dirt,
wings of skin extended
in grotesque flattened flight
while above, the sun
dries the remains of
their nest.
I am old and young then,
in these least rains,
where the smallest rivers flood.
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6 comments:
What I love so much about this one is that it brings together so many elements you've discussed about other poems: quiet, cruelty, language with power but not pretense.
Those last two stanzas are knockouts, knockouts, and they are that memorable because the opening stanzas are so understated, direct, unadorned. Tremendous poetry at work here.
This is lovely and poignant. The juxtaposition of rain that gives life and deals death is approached softly so that it sneaks up on you by the last two stanzas. Wow.
BG: thanks. I feel like I know you from another life, back in the 90's maybe. Seriously, thank you for the praise.
Jim, thank you much for coming by and your kudos. Knockout squared can't help but make a guy feel good.
Chicklegirl, nice to hear from you. Rain is tricky that way, eh? The poem actually began as a haiku of sorts, and I think at its heart still is despite it being stanzas long.
There is something here that captures that thing that makes poets write. The quiet rain and baby sparrows, I think they must happen everywhere in the world, but here they have been seen and felt and named.
Hi Robin, good to hear from you and thanks for the poem comment. I love the Bobcat photos BTW.
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