Warren Falcon

(04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

'Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Mountains For Manhattan, circa 1981


For Lowery McClendon

You did it. You left the trout behind.

Sunday the corn was cut down. Apple trees
in the nearby orchard were felled which explains
the screams I heard a week ago, and the droning'
of wasps. That hill was exposed this evening at
sunset, reflected pink in the sky. Reminds me of
the women I always saw through your eyes,
their large lips and eyes, the dark thighs particularly,
fields without their corn now shedding a purple
light like Stevens' Hartford, and you there tonight
forsaking the school yard we'd walk beside
stopping to comment on that view of hills
at our favorite wall where 'Nigger's Pandemonium'
stalled on hot nights to break beer bottles for your
poems broken glass, curtains you'd pass in the
dark where your wheels would splay the stars stuck
to tar bubbles on the street when Hart Crane beat
his words against your rhythm running down
to Montford Park.

Be quick about it then, your departure:

I walked through your house.
You left behind that crooked frying pan.
Your steaks will never taste the same again,
and that espresso pot there, too, black stains
stuck inside like little Lamont's words,
'Are we lost yet? ' Just thrown out like that
plaster of paris bone from the kitchen.
No dog would chew on that, some kind of
sentinel to Arborvale Street signaling something
fragile has passed on like Mr. McKnight's
roses given over to winter, Indian summer
an old squaw, packed up her warm skins
and vanished like a wife or lovers.
It's like that, you know. No magic but our
own so often like that old white bone's intention
to be art, our poems strung on the page like
slip over chicken wire, words expiring from
our clutching at them -

'You will be beautiful, make meaningful our days.'

What are our names anymore, Low?

The corn is all cut down.
An old scare crow remains.
Apropos. Poetry's worn out image
stretched out on the hill forlorn in the ice,
forgiving no one, especially ourselves,
alien corn of a foundering century.

Submitted: Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Edited: Saturday, March 13, 2010

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

What do you think this poem is about?



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem ('Dear Low' - Upon His Leaving Mountains For Manhattan, circa 1981 by Warren Falcon )

Enter the verification code :

Read all 1 comments »

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. A Free Mind, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  2. Dissolved, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
  3. Go boothward young doves, moez meftah
  4. To Someone Special On Poemhunter, Electric Lady
  5. Thank You: from a dear friend, Almedia Knight Oliver
  6. Memories, anthony john cerrito, sr.
  7. The Sea, Somasekar Sivaprakash
  8. Gods Revenge, Tango Tango
  9. 'Valerie', Katherine Nordhaus
  10. 'Charlie Girl', Katherine Nordhaus

Poem of the Day

poet John Clare

I love to see the old heath's withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,
...... Read complete »

 

Modern Poem

poet Grace Paley

 

Trending Poems

  1. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
  2. And Death Shall Have No Dominion, Dylan Thomas
  3. Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
  4. Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye
  5. Fern Hill, Dylan Thomas
  6. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  7. Daffodils, William Wordsworth
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
  9. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  10. Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda

Trending Poets

[Hata Bildir]