LXXXVII

Don October 7th, 2009

LXXXVII 

Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

  

            Sometimes in life there is nothing to be done but write poetry.  What other response to this experience could there be?

 

 Mountain Memory 

The Mountains do not sleep when the sun goes down.

I have been nose to nose with a spotted skunk

Who came to eat the granola I had spilled

At supper, and then decided to find out

What kind of creature was a sleeping bag

And ask it why it slept when all the other

More sensible animals were up foraging,

And what was it doing in his back yard anyway?

He learned to his surprise it was a skin

For an even stranger creature called a man.

(Just what he would have done had he found out

It was detachable, I dared not ask him.)

What shone more brightly, his eyes or his sleek coat?

I mustn’t frighten him, but ought I let

Him stay this close?  And what choice did I have?

In his own way, no doubt, he asked himself

Much the same questions about me, though likely

He was less impressed than I was by the awesome

Beauty of the creature he had met

And less torn between joy and apprehension

And much more sure of just what he would do

If the other varmint should look too aggressive.

For a time we stared and asked our silent questions,

Then some noise startled him and he was gone.

It seemed that we had made a goodly trade:

A few crumbs of granola for a night

Of wonder and delight, and each of us

Was sure he had the best end of the bargain.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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