I remember, in the middle
of winter, around January, a
few seasons ago, which have
all blended together since, right
around the setting of the
sun, before five pm. How
depressing it was, usually. The
shadows of the sun settling
behind the hills, behind the
ocean, like a hand over
my eyes from my mother
when I was a child.
But I was on the
train, from the north of
the city, coming home to
see you. My face had
changed much since the last
time I saw you. My
eyes grew dark around, and
my hands had grown a
bit more shaky, perhaps I
had used the whiskey as
a crutch. Train 1641, passing
the time of the ride,
which seemed to drag on
and on, by reading Billy
Collins, and with my last
sip, I knew soon enough
we would be touching again.
1 comment:
A while ago, you posted some poems in French (at least I thought it was French, I don't speak it). There are some foreign language, American based poetry journals that you should submit to. I had seen an add for one in Amherst (I'm not sure if it's based in Amherst or if it's a national or New England thing). I tried finding it so I could give you the information, but I couldn't. If you're interested in getting them to publish your work, try giving a look for it. I'll let you know if I ever come across it again.
This poem reminded me of something I had written a few years ago. I brought it to workshop and the teacher told me that by having so many commas and clauses that that became the focus of the poem. But he was a dumbass. I really like your use of punctuation and enjambment. Everything can be said within a breath and it keeps the reader chugging through the poem, as if on the train. The form is working very well with the content.
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