Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
comments on "On the Edge" version 6
Hey, if you couldn’t force yourself all the way through version 5, version 6 is shorter!
I’ve noticed an odd thing. When I get, in this versioning business, to a place where the poem is working. It’s pleasing me. It becomes invisible. That was happening earlier today with this one. It was disappearing before my eyes.
Changes: fewer great words in the cliff address (great word fatigue); grammar adjustments in gull address; boy address consolidated; last line of seersucker address once again touched up; goodbye to wind address; stanza breaks added throughout.
Now that I’m rereading it: Is that ending ending it? Are those questions strong enough? Should I try a version without questions?
Do the addresses work together? Do those great words in the cliff address read like an undigested lump of research? Are those stanzas appropriate in the seersucker address?
I’ve noticed an odd thing. When I get, in this versioning business, to a place where the poem is working. It’s pleasing me. It becomes invisible. That was happening earlier today with this one. It was disappearing before my eyes.
Changes: fewer great words in the cliff address (great word fatigue); grammar adjustments in gull address; boy address consolidated; last line of seersucker address once again touched up; goodbye to wind address; stanza breaks added throughout.
Now that I’m rereading it: Is that ending ending it? Are those questions strong enough? Should I try a version without questions?
Do the addresses work together? Do those great words in the cliff address read like an undigested lump of research? Are those stanzas appropriate in the seersucker address?
“On the Edge” version 6
Four Addresses
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where today to take you? Coast?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter,
foam yellowing on softened lost telephone poles -
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, crystals of grass green
omphacite pyroxene amid a pox of garnets,
flaky muscovite silver, blueschist
with its amphibole slickenside grooved –
what’s the look of it? steady even then?
indifferent? a compassion for all things jetsam?
before the reaches of ocean, the daily drop of sun into it,
is that passivity? a grand passivity?
preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold your arms,
sleeves aflutter. Spread them. Spread them wide.
To the gull
The yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, but to have that said.
Out to the black tip of each wing with gray feathers,
the yellow green webbing between toes folding
then spreading, you hold air.
This is no demonstration, is it?
You didn’t take this position to advise:
this the way to take the air, the only way, really,
to take to it?
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where today to take you? Coast?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter,
foam yellowing on softened lost telephone poles -
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, crystals of grass green
omphacite pyroxene amid a pox of garnets,
flaky muscovite silver, blueschist
with its amphibole slickenside grooved –
what’s the look of it? steady even then?
indifferent? a compassion for all things jetsam?
before the reaches of ocean, the daily drop of sun into it,
is that passivity? a grand passivity?
preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold your arms,
sleeves aflutter. Spread them. Spread them wide.
To the gull
The yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, but to have that said.
Out to the black tip of each wing with gray feathers,
the yellow green webbing between toes folding
then spreading, you hold air.
This is no demonstration, is it?
You didn’t take this position to advise:
this the way to take the air, the only way, really,
to take to it?
Friday, July 27, 2007
comments on "On the Edge" version 5
It’s long, isn’t it? You could think of it as a few short poems. I had a lot of fun working on this Wednesday. I tried to save substantively different versions. Still, I did a lot fiddling. Change a word, a line break, change something else. I decided not to reread it before posting it today. When I reread it I expect I’ll make more changes.
So now it has sections addressing the boy (the man!), the seagull, the wind, the cliff, and … I guess that’s it. You! … oh, yeah … The seersucker! How’d I forget the seersucker?
So now it has sections addressing the boy (the man!), the seagull, the wind, the cliff, and … I guess that’s it. You! … oh, yeah … The seersucker! How’d I forget the seersucker?
"On the Edge" version 5
To the boy
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you today? Coast?
To the boy
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter,
foam yellowing on softened lost
telephone poles, the odd striped polystyrene chunk --
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, crystals of grass green
omphacite pyroxene amid a pox of garnets,
flaky muscovite silver, blueschist
with its amphibole, glaucophane, lawsonite,
slickenside grooved, nappes of chert
pressured red – what’s the look of it,
even then steady? indifferent? compassion
for all things jetsam? before the reaches of ocean,
the daily drop of the sun into it, is that passivity?
a grand passivity? preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold your arms,
sleeves aflutter. Let them spread out wide.
To the gull
Of no great size you hover, the wind good
for holding you up, brown-eyes.
Your black-ringed yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, but to have that said.
Out to the black tip of each wing gray feathers
adjusting to the air rushing them, the green yellow
webbing between your toes spreading then folding.
This is no suggestion, is it? Not advice?
You’re not demonstrating the perfect example,
the only way to take the air, to take to it?
To the wind
You could carry him. You’d have to do the work.
But you have the power. You can sweep the kid off his feet.
Lift him up. Fill him with the distance you’ve traveled,
wave by wave across the wide ocean, empty into him
what you’ve picked up getting here, show him how you’ve come.
You’re no boy. You’ve so cleanly shaved the dark
from your pink face, tamed those curls with a trim.
You’ve dressed yourself, picked from the closet
a handsome kit, fastened to your wrist a slender ticker.
To the seersucker
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you today? Coast?
To the boy
Down from the road, along a narrow path
cutting through a shallow turf, you took your shoe.
Aren’t you debonair, the air rare
at the cliff’s lip, one lone gull taking a share?
To the cliff
The face you offer, varying grades
of slope, the drop in places just air
all the way to black sand and graywacke,
seething white wave-shatter,
foam yellowing on softened lost
telephone poles, the odd striped polystyrene chunk --
when Pacific gales wash it and the softer
sands and gravels fade to stubble
of orange peridotite and the shale sheared
with serpentine, crystals of grass green
omphacite pyroxene amid a pox of garnets,
flaky muscovite silver, blueschist
with its amphibole, glaucophane, lawsonite,
slickenside grooved, nappes of chert
pressured red – what’s the look of it,
even then steady? indifferent? compassion
for all things jetsam? before the reaches of ocean,
the daily drop of the sun into it, is that passivity?
a grand passivity? preoccupation with the self?
To the boy
Now you’ve looked up, all the sky white
as the seagull’s breast, as the dash the surf makes
against a stonestack poised in surge. Unfold your arms,
sleeves aflutter. Let them spread out wide.
To the gull
Of no great size you hover, the wind good
for holding you up, brown-eyes.
Your black-ringed yellow bill with the red beauty spot
opens to a sharp tongue and a jeer,
not to make fun, but to have that said.
Out to the black tip of each wing gray feathers
adjusting to the air rushing them, the green yellow
webbing between your toes spreading then folding.
This is no suggestion, is it? Not advice?
You’re not demonstrating the perfect example,
the only way to take the air, to take to it?
To the wind
You could carry him. You’d have to do the work.
But you have the power. You can sweep the kid off his feet.
Lift him up. Fill him with the distance you’ve traveled,
wave by wave across the wide ocean, empty into him
what you’ve picked up getting here, show him how you’ve come.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
comments on “On the Edge” version 4
Versions 2 & 3 addressed a seersucker suit. Version 4 addresses the cliff. As with version 3 I built the poem from a hunk of research. Most of it is from Terry Wright’s geologic tour of Shell Beach, a beach on the Sonoma Coast. I grew up in Sonoma County. Shell Beach was not one where I’d spent much time – mostly we drove out to Salmon Creek Beach which has a lot of soft sand. When I took a geology class at junior college our instructor told us Shell Beach is world famous for its melange, a mix of rocks transformed by the pressure of subduction, the Pacific plate grinding under the Continental Plate in a series of fault zones. The metamorphized rocks pop up at Shell Beach. It was fun stirring in words like chert, eclogite, radiolarian, and slickenside. I’m still hoping to find room for nappe and amphibolite.
I’ve long wanted to incorporate research into a poem and internet research is proving remarkably congenial to the effort. It’s sure nice being able to highlight and copy to a file all the interesting bits; once grabbed they are easy to manipulate. I suppose one ought to be cautious about plagiarism here, the accidental (?) reuse of the original’s phrasing. I want to retain some of the flavor of the original as that material is a good deal different from what I do and holding onto some of that difference seems like a good thing.
I’ve long wanted to incorporate research into a poem and internet research is proving remarkably congenial to the effort. It’s sure nice being able to highlight and copy to a file all the interesting bits; once grabbed they are easy to manipulate. I suppose one ought to be cautious about plagiarism here, the accidental (?) reuse of the original’s phrasing. I want to retain some of the flavor of the original as that material is a good deal different from what I do and holding onto some of that difference seems like a good thing.
"On the Edge" version 4
Crags of rock tear holes in the blanket of turf
which tucks over your melange – shiny serpentine
sheared with shale, borne up from old sandbars
pressed to terraces, a flight of stairs,
each year gaining a millimeter on the sea.
Pacific gales shave your face of coarse
sands and gravels, and a stubble
of conglomerates emerges – cherts
from radiolarian blooms reddened by pressure,
veins of white quartz, grass green crystals
of omphacite pyroxene pocked by garnets
and flaky muscovite silver, eclogite and
bluescist with its amphibole, glaucophane,
lawsonite, squeezed into flow, slickenside
grooves from what drove them down.
The drop you offer, the one the youth has walked
a mile along, a black beach below seething with white wave-shatter,
a hardy yellowed foam drying on softened
lost telephone poles and the occasional
dingy polystyrene chunk, how sheer is it,
what speed does a rock knocked loose
get to get to in full tumble? There are places
you offer slope of various grades;
there are places you offer air
all the way down.
A Pleistocene sea stack washed by the waters
of what gives you heft hulks skinnily in
the churning. The wind yanks his tie
from its clip, and it swings out from his neck,
a tail feather lonesome for tail and sky.
You give him ground, here at ocean edge,
all he needs to stand and feel, his clothes
aflutter on him.
which tucks over your melange – shiny serpentine
sheared with shale, borne up from old sandbars
pressed to terraces, a flight of stairs,
each year gaining a millimeter on the sea.
Pacific gales shave your face of coarse
sands and gravels, and a stubble
of conglomerates emerges – cherts
from radiolarian blooms reddened by pressure,
veins of white quartz, grass green crystals
of omphacite pyroxene pocked by garnets
and flaky muscovite silver, eclogite and
bluescist with its amphibole, glaucophane,
lawsonite, squeezed into flow, slickenside
grooves from what drove them down.
The drop you offer, the one the youth has walked
a mile along, a black beach below seething with white wave-shatter,
a hardy yellowed foam drying on softened
lost telephone poles and the occasional
dingy polystyrene chunk, how sheer is it,
what speed does a rock knocked loose
get to get to in full tumble? There are places
you offer slope of various grades;
there are places you offer air
all the way down.
A Pleistocene sea stack washed by the waters
of what gives you heft hulks skinnily in
the churning. The wind yanks his tie
from its clip, and it swings out from his neck,
a tail feather lonesome for tail and sky.
You give him ground, here at ocean edge,
all he needs to stand and feel, his clothes
aflutter on him.
Friday, July 20, 2007
bespoke
I got rejected. That hasn’t happened in awhile. Years. The reason? I haven’t been sending work out. I have sent work out very occasionally. Very selectively. And have seen poems taken up.
Yesterday’s rejection from Global City Review was no big surprise. I didn’t think my aesthetic and theirs fit up well. But I had bought the latest issue and I was pushing myself to get work out somewhere, if not just anywhere. I was following the advice to send to a magazine you’ve studied. The poems I sent seemed somewhat Global-City-ish. Besides, it’s always seemed silly to me to hold back sending good stuff because the magazine hasn’t (to one’s own knowledge) published exactly that sort of thing before. Maybe it’s cuz they’ve not seen it? Does one only ever eat hot dogs because one has never tasted kielbasa? Or because one just doesn’t like anything else? You can’t know for sure. It’s not like I offered up an uncooked eggplant.
When sending work to a new place I wanted to send a poem written especially for them. I’ve done that three times now. The first time the magazine chose one of the poems in the packet but not the one I wrote to their announced theme. The one I wrote for Global City was versioned on LuvSet. It turned out the least Global-City-ish of the batch. Not that, in their case, they went for one else. The last of the three magazines has not yet responded.
I imagined my vow would result in more poems going out. It has, I suppose. But drip-drip turning into a trickle?
Yesterday’s rejection from Global City Review was no big surprise. I didn’t think my aesthetic and theirs fit up well. But I had bought the latest issue and I was pushing myself to get work out somewhere, if not just anywhere. I was following the advice to send to a magazine you’ve studied. The poems I sent seemed somewhat Global-City-ish. Besides, it’s always seemed silly to me to hold back sending good stuff because the magazine hasn’t (to one’s own knowledge) published exactly that sort of thing before. Maybe it’s cuz they’ve not seen it? Does one only ever eat hot dogs because one has never tasted kielbasa? Or because one just doesn’t like anything else? You can’t know for sure. It’s not like I offered up an uncooked eggplant.
When sending work to a new place I wanted to send a poem written especially for them. I’ve done that three times now. The first time the magazine chose one of the poems in the packet but not the one I wrote to their announced theme. The one I wrote for Global City was versioned on LuvSet. It turned out the least Global-City-ish of the batch. Not that, in their case, they went for one else. The last of the three magazines has not yet responded.
I imagined my vow would result in more poems going out. It has, I suppose. But drip-drip turning into a trickle?
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
comments on "On the Edge" version 3
I tend to read a poem aloud repeatedly during revision. Have to adjust the sounds, sound often pushing around meaning, though must take care with that.
The poem is addressed to the seersucker itself, rather than the wearer. I’ve long thought the second person (the you) problematic as when I read a passage written in the second person I resist it. What, it’s telling me what I did/am doing/would do?
You lift your face to the sun, its warmth soothing you. … Or maybe making you squint? The worrying type has already put on sunscreen. … The I speaks for itself. The he is spoken of. But the you is a form of address, a command form. Not to say I haven’t used second person many times; I am wary of it.
In the original “On the Edge” the person addressed is described in such detail that the reader is unlikely to mistake the you for himself. Is changing the addressed from a person to a suit of clothes a touch too whimsical? Does it sap the drama?
As I said in my last comments I reread “On the Edge” and don’t see a new way for it. But I’m having fun with this alternate poem. We’ll see if they grow together or remain apart.
The poem is addressed to the seersucker itself, rather than the wearer. I’ve long thought the second person (the you) problematic as when I read a passage written in the second person I resist it. What, it’s telling me what I did/am doing/would do?
You lift your face to the sun, its warmth soothing you. … Or maybe making you squint? The worrying type has already put on sunscreen. … The I speaks for itself. The he is spoken of. But the you is a form of address, a command form. Not to say I haven’t used second person many times; I am wary of it.
In the original “On the Edge” the person addressed is described in such detail that the reader is unlikely to mistake the you for himself. Is changing the addressed from a person to a suit of clothes a touch too whimsical? Does it sap the drama?
As I said in my last comments I reread “On the Edge” and don’t see a new way for it. But I’m having fun with this alternate poem. We’ll see if they grow together or remain apart.
"On the Edge" version 3
Bespoke, custom-cut, hand-stitched,
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you on a day like this? The coast?
The cliff? The rocks below wet like lips?
Those flops of seaweed and blue mussel shells,
barnacles in their beak pucker white.
It’s too late, the sea wind sings, checking the watch,
thin and gold among the dark hairs of the wrist.
The wind will wear you, won’t she, work her way
through to the boy inside.
even so some threads bunch, it’s the weave
gives you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in high heat a summer.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
to normal wool cool alternate,
but what to wear with you? It’s a light
buckskin lace-up with sole of red rubber,
paisley blue tie, a pink button-down,
white pocket square and hat of brave straw
that won’t overdo. Though suspenders? A no.
Where to take you on a day like this? The coast?
The cliff? The rocks below wet like lips?
Those flops of seaweed and blue mussel shells,
barnacles in their beak pucker white.
It’s too late, the sea wind sings, checking the watch,
thin and gold among the dark hairs of the wrist.
The wind will wear you, won’t she, work her way
through to the boy inside.
Monday, July 09, 2007
comments on “On the Edge” version 2
I can’t find a way in to the old version of “On the Edge”. Often in poems I will see a new version shrugging out of the old, like a bright snake from frayed skin. That’s not happening here.
But I got interested in seersucker. Tell the truth, I didn’t know what seersucker was when I wrote the first version twenty years ago. I just thought it meant something high class, formal. But not tuxedo formal. After failing to find a way into “On the Edge” I started doing research into seersucker. At ehow I found some advice on how to wear/what to wear with a seersucker suit and at Wikipedia I found a description of seersucker fabric. The version here excerpts much from those sources.
I had fun with this. Little idea of what next, though.
But I got interested in seersucker. Tell the truth, I didn’t know what seersucker was when I wrote the first version twenty years ago. I just thought it meant something high class, formal. But not tuxedo formal. After failing to find a way into “On the Edge” I started doing research into seersucker. At ehow I found some advice on how to wear/what to wear with a seersucker suit and at Wikipedia I found a description of seersucker fabric. The version here excerpts much from those sources.
I had fun with this. Little idea of what next, though.
“On the Edge” version 2
Bespoke, hand-crafted, custom-fit,
woven even so so some threads bunch,
giving you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in the high heat a summer,
what airs the affections and moves over skin.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
cool alternative to normal wool,
there's more way than one to wear you.
It's a light buckskin lace-up with red-rubber sole,
tie of blue paisley, a pink button-down,
white pocket square, and a hat of brave straw
won’t overdo you, no, though suspenders? No, no.
Much depends on where you go. Coast?
woven even so so some threads bunch,
giving you that pucker, which feature
lets in what stirs in the high heat a summer,
what airs the affections and moves over skin.
Blue-and-white pinstripe number,
cool alternative to normal wool,
there's more way than one to wear you.
It's a light buckskin lace-up with red-rubber sole,
tie of blue paisley, a pink button-down,
white pocket square, and a hat of brave straw
won’t overdo you, no, though suspenders? No, no.
Much depends on where you go. Coast?
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
comments on "On the Edge"
I haven’t presented myself with a revision challenge in awhile. “On the Edge” was written in February 1985. I was 19. It’s from the notebook “Spring Breeze on Purple Iris” which I filled over the course of a month (mid-January to mid-February), a level of production I may not have matched since. The work that begins the book is not the work that ends it. There was a qualitative change. I wrote my writing better. I’m not going to say the work up to this notebook was bad and the work after it was good, but I didn’t expect to find within it any particular change – trying new things, sure, working in a productive vein, perhaps. I’ve been reading through my old poetry notebooks, wondering sometimes if it’s worth the bother. Even allow-for-its-time-and-place me can tire of reading bad poems.
I am posting “On the Edge” because I like it. I wouldn’t submit it for publication. I doubt I ever did, though I may have read it at an open mic. I have only the vaguest notions of what I could do with/to this poem. But that’s the challenge!
I am posting “On the Edge” because I like it. I wouldn’t submit it for publication. I doubt I ever did, though I may have read it at an open mic. I have only the vaguest notions of what I could do with/to this poem. But that’s the challenge!
"On the Edge"
It’s too late to intervene.
You look so clean-cut in your seersucker suit,
your argyle socks, your thin gold watch.
You look so debonair, so fair, in the rare air
at the tip of the cliff, where wind whiffles your pantlegs,
invades your short hair, curling it back from your face.
Such clear skin, close-shaved dark beard in pale cheeks
and firm chin, bright blue eyes, thick black eyebrows.
One seagull cries, hovering – you glance at him, his gray wings, dingy white breast,
his squawk is nearly soundless as the gusts whip up from the waves, carry off his vowel screams.
You lean forward, cup one blunt hand against the buffeting wind, catch a tingling of sea mist spewed from the crash of waves.
Arms of wind reach inside your jacket, fingers caressing your back.
Another feather of wind seeks up your pantlegs, tickling your shins, knees, thighs.
You lean further into the wind, let it buoy you up, let it tenderly rescue you from gravity,
from the beckoning wave gestures, the seductive kiss of foam, the seaweed with arms to hug holding tight a rock.
It’s too late for fate to save you now should the loving wind recant and slip away, allow you to fall.
You spread wide your arms and still the wind licks your stomach, clambers over your shoulders, brushes your hair,
holds you so gently on this cliff
so gently high above the edge of the sea.
Now lifts, now lifts you, and you hover like a seersucker seagull.
Only the wind hears your vowel shout.
You look so clean-cut in your seersucker suit,
your argyle socks, your thin gold watch.
You look so debonair, so fair, in the rare air
at the tip of the cliff, where wind whiffles your pantlegs,
invades your short hair, curling it back from your face.
Such clear skin, close-shaved dark beard in pale cheeks
and firm chin, bright blue eyes, thick black eyebrows.
One seagull cries, hovering – you glance at him, his gray wings, dingy white breast,
his squawk is nearly soundless as the gusts whip up from the waves, carry off his vowel screams.
You lean forward, cup one blunt hand against the buffeting wind, catch a tingling of sea mist spewed from the crash of waves.
Arms of wind reach inside your jacket, fingers caressing your back.
Another feather of wind seeks up your pantlegs, tickling your shins, knees, thighs.
You lean further into the wind, let it buoy you up, let it tenderly rescue you from gravity,
from the beckoning wave gestures, the seductive kiss of foam, the seaweed with arms to hug holding tight a rock.
It’s too late for fate to save you now should the loving wind recant and slip away, allow you to fall.
You spread wide your arms and still the wind licks your stomach, clambers over your shoulders, brushes your hair,
holds you so gently on this cliff
so gently high above the edge of the sea.
Now lifts, now lifts you, and you hover like a seersucker seagull.
Only the wind hears your vowel shout.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Amusement Park Horror
I love the Roller Coaster. And, yes, I have gotten nauseous on them twirly-spinny rides, but mostly no. Mostly I just like ‘em.
I don’t like lines. That’s about the worst thing about amusement parks. Except maybe getting killed by a ride. That would be pretty high in contention among worst things at amusement parks.
Last week an amusement park worker in New York got killed by a ride. The article I read was vague on how it happened. She was getting off work but told her replacement she was going to lock in a last batch of riders. The new guy started up the ride. Did he start it up before she’d gotten out of the way? The article says he shut down the ride as soon as he “noticed [her] still on the ride,” which implies she’d plopped into a seat herself. But she “already had been thrown from it” before the big machine could stop.
I’m not one to dwell on the details of other people’s deadly accidents, okay? But I live with an employment law expert. And he comes home yesterday and tells me he had to post a reply to some “expert” who sniffed that this accident “highlights the limits of workplace safety laws” as though such laws were powerless before “human error” … thus, what, we’re better off without them?
Anyway, the original post appears here with Kent’s reply below it.
“An off-duty (perhaps tired) worker was improperly loading passengers (late arrivals) on equipment that was not using all appropriate protective equipment [this was acknowledged in the news item] (precaution not followed) in a park that (recently) is killing over one person per year.”
How, K’s saying, is this not an example of a preventable accident? This is the very thing well-enforced laws would make less likely.
I don’t like lines. That’s about the worst thing about amusement parks. Except maybe getting killed by a ride. That would be pretty high in contention among worst things at amusement parks.
Last week an amusement park worker in New York got killed by a ride. The article I read was vague on how it happened. She was getting off work but told her replacement she was going to lock in a last batch of riders. The new guy started up the ride. Did he start it up before she’d gotten out of the way? The article says he shut down the ride as soon as he “noticed [her] still on the ride,” which implies she’d plopped into a seat herself. But she “already had been thrown from it” before the big machine could stop.
I’m not one to dwell on the details of other people’s deadly accidents, okay? But I live with an employment law expert. And he comes home yesterday and tells me he had to post a reply to some “expert” who sniffed that this accident “highlights the limits of workplace safety laws” as though such laws were powerless before “human error” … thus, what, we’re better off without them?
Anyway, the original post appears here with Kent’s reply below it.
“An off-duty (perhaps tired) worker was improperly loading passengers (late arrivals) on equipment that was not using all appropriate protective equipment [this was acknowledged in the news item] (precaution not followed) in a park that (recently) is killing over one person per year.”
How, K’s saying, is this not an example of a preventable accident? This is the very thing well-enforced laws would make less likely.
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