Wilyem Clark
10-04-2015, 01:43 PM
October 3
The maples on Sycamore Street
Are flaunting their finest fall fashions;
Despite the volatile weather,
They've come through in October hours,
Pushing out scarlet and orange and blush.
The pigeons, rigor-mortised in situ,
One per lamp in the open-air station,
Pretend they don't see or mind me.
Fluffed up in granitic plume kaftans,
They may have been there for centuries,
As if master masons carved them
On a day off from chiseling saints.
===
Upon Reading a Sketch by a Student Attending My Old School
The writer's job is to propagate his soul;
The reader's is to bend to the writer's intent.
And so, fending off vague nostalgia,
I wade into this budding author's pool
Wearing litmus-paper trunks to test his waters.
I nitpick as I would my own scribations:
Are his birdies' tweetings playful, or
Are they spatting over nest-sites?
Does sunlight really batter? If so,
Is Sol a wrecking ball on high?
But then I ease on past the shallows,
Float with him under metaphor-skies.
Affection for his teacher is authentic—
It's clear his gratitude is unreserved.
Too recent to have tutored me,
Yet at that milestone of her life
When farewells are necessity,
She occupies the center of the piece.
This is her final day, and he reflects
On her importance in his life, and how
Her lessons have transformed him.
I'm glad he took the time to spell in ink
His heartfelt commendation for this maestra;
I've sat in chairs like his in class
And barely mused on futures, as I should have;
For time bum-rushes us ahead
With little pause for real appreciation
Before our mentors die, or we ourselves are dead.
The maples on Sycamore Street
Are flaunting their finest fall fashions;
Despite the volatile weather,
They've come through in October hours,
Pushing out scarlet and orange and blush.
The pigeons, rigor-mortised in situ,
One per lamp in the open-air station,
Pretend they don't see or mind me.
Fluffed up in granitic plume kaftans,
They may have been there for centuries,
As if master masons carved them
On a day off from chiseling saints.
===
Upon Reading a Sketch by a Student Attending My Old School
The writer's job is to propagate his soul;
The reader's is to bend to the writer's intent.
And so, fending off vague nostalgia,
I wade into this budding author's pool
Wearing litmus-paper trunks to test his waters.
I nitpick as I would my own scribations:
Are his birdies' tweetings playful, or
Are they spatting over nest-sites?
Does sunlight really batter? If so,
Is Sol a wrecking ball on high?
But then I ease on past the shallows,
Float with him under metaphor-skies.
Affection for his teacher is authentic—
It's clear his gratitude is unreserved.
Too recent to have tutored me,
Yet at that milestone of her life
When farewells are necessity,
She occupies the center of the piece.
This is her final day, and he reflects
On her importance in his life, and how
Her lessons have transformed him.
I'm glad he took the time to spell in ink
His heartfelt commendation for this maestra;
I've sat in chairs like his in class
And barely mused on futures, as I should have;
For time bum-rushes us ahead
With little pause for real appreciation
Before our mentors die, or we ourselves are dead.