Treasure Island

Pattiann Rogers

(1940 / Joplin, Missouri / United States)

In General


This is about no rain in particular,
just any rain, rain sounding on the roof,
any roof, slate or wood, tin or clay
or thatch, any rain among any trees,
rain in soft, soundless accumulation,
gathering rather than falling on the fir
of juniper and cedar, on a lace-community
of cobwebs, rain clicking off the rigid
leaves of oaks or magnolias, any kind
of rain, cold and smelling of ice or rising
again as steam off hot pavements
or stilling dust on country roads in August.
This is about rain as rain possessing
only the attributes of any rain in general.
And this is about night, any night
coming in its same immeasurably gradual
way, fulfilling expectations in its old
manner, creating heavens for lovers
and thieves, taking into itself the scarlet
of the scarlet sumac, the blue of the blue
vervain, no specific night, not a night
of birth or death, not the night forever
beyond the frightening side of the moon,
not the night always meeting itself
at the bottom of the sea, any sea, warm
and tropical or starless and stormy, night
meeting night beneath Arctic ice.
This attends to all nights but no night.
And this is about wind by itself,
not winter wind in particular lifting
the lightest snow off the mountaintop
into the thinnest air, not wind through
city streets, pushing people sideways,
rolling ash cans banging down the block,
not a prairie wind holding hawks suspended
mid-sky, not wind as straining sails
or as curtains on a spring evening, casually
in and back over the bed, not wind
as brother or wind as bully, not a lowing
wind, not a high howling wind. This is
about wind solely as pure wind in itself,
without moment, without witness.
Therefore this night tonight-
a midnight of late autumn winds shaking
the poplars and aspens by the fence, slamming
doors, rattling the porch swing, whipping
thundering black rains in gusts across
the hillsides, in batteries against the windows
as we lie together listening in the dark, our own
particular fingers touching- can never
be a subject of this specific conversation

Submitted: Thursday, March 20, 2014
Edited: Thursday, March 20, 2014

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 (In General by Pattiann Rogers )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. The Futility Of Illusions, Bazi alis Subrata Ray
  2. Tour of Autumn, Cathy Hodgson
  3. The ache, DEEPAK KUMAR PATTANAYAK
  4. Ein schmaler Streifen kahler Klippen, Wolfgang Steinmann
  5. We've Got to Tear These Fences Down Yeah!, David Clinch
  6. It's My Home, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  7. In the Sun's Falsetto, Kewayne Wadley
  8. A Poem, David Clinch
  9. Caught In the Crossfire, David Clinch
  10. Lonnie Donegan Stood, David Clinch

Poem of the Day

poet Walt Whitman

ARM’D year! year of the struggle!
No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you, terrible year!
Not you as some pale poetling, seated at a desk, lisping cadenzas
piano;
...... Read complete »

   

Trending Poems

  1. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  3. Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
  4. Daffodils, William Wordsworth
  5. If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
  6. If, Rudyard Kipling
  7. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  8. Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
  10. Dreams, Langston Hughes

Trending Poets

[Hata Bildir]