Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

IMG_0864The wall of noise dissolves to rain,

a world held in place by a million falling threads.

In the balance, the fur on the coyote’s belly,

worn as leather but marked with a lifetime of fights,

and the lake hungry for new stories to swim with the old.

Lightning angles and wishbones, branches into branches

that mimic what grows or tunnels below.

Scenery unrolls quick-silver–expanses of land

or water, sky and darkness–in the flash that lights up

all the lines of roads and clouds, cedars and shorelines,

before sealing all back together in shifting hues of night.

What seems like the end, again a beginning.

What can’t be said, suddenly pouring down everywhere.

~ Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, reprinted from Chasing Weather: Tornadoes, Tempests, and Thunderous Skies in Word and Image by Stephen Locke & Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg.

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg is the third poet laureate of Kansas, author of 19 books, and founder of Transformative Language Arts at Goddard College, where she teaches.

Double Trouble for Poetry Month: During Poetry Month, we are featuring a poem weekly from each of Kansas’s poets laureate in addition to our weekly poems.

Comments on: "Rain by Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg" (2)

  1. Annie Newcomer said:

    Caryn, sometime would you be able to post the poem that you wrote at the William Stafford event at Washburn College last year? You used a phrase from each of the nearly 40 poets’ work who participated. I loved that poem. It was quite clever. Thank you.

  2. Individual Poet said:

    Talking to Stafford Late at Night

    Never mind that you’re a morning person, or 18 years dead —
    I hear you over my left shoulder. “Maybe,” you say,
    then nod. Outside, the pink sky has dissolved to black.
    The snow exhales. Temperatures drop. The waning moon climbs
    over the cusp of exhausted cedars. Juncos, chickadees and occasional
    branches of sadness sleep. “Maybe what?” I ask,
    keeping my hand moving on the window of the page.

    Outside, you see what you always saw: dark on dark,
    a glimmer of movement, a low call from where
    the air glitters into itself. Behind the curtain of winter, spring.
    Inside spring, lilac, hard to imagine. Yet the dirt
    still manages to inhale the sky and make itself porous.
    We wait together for me to find what I’m looking for.
    Not something known and lost but the opposite. My hands
    breathe. The steady almost undetectable buzz of everything
    sings toward the wide arms of the dark horizon.

    World, I could say if I were you, or Friend,
    what would you have me do so that the perfect music
    could come out, juxtaposing dark and home, song and field,
    abandoned house of the heart and noiseless crowd of tall grass?
    You wait in the dark, showing me time itself turns on “maybe,”
    the “no” of what we cannot bear, the “yes” of all that is.

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