June 19: Poet of the Week, Arthur Rimbaud, "Dawn"

The Poet of the Week is Arthur Rimbaud.  Just because his poems are gorgeous and passionate and sexy.

Sort of like Saint Marty.

Dawn

by:  Arthur Rimbaud

I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.

I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose soundlessly.

My first adventure, in a path already gleaming With a clear pale light, Was a flower who told me its name.

I laughted at the blond Wasserfall That threw its hair across the pines: On the silvered summit, I came upon the goddess.

Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms.

Across the meadow, where I betrayed her to the cock. In the heart of town she fled among the steeples and domes, And I hunted her, scrambling like a beggar on marble wharves.

Above the road, near a thicket of laurel, I caught her in her gathered veils, And smelled the scent of her immense body. Dawn and the child fell together at the bottom of the wood.

When I awoke, it was noon.

August 1: U. P. poem, Phil Legler, "Local Story"

When you live in a place as beautiful as the Upper Peninsula, it affects you.  If you're a writer, you start writing about Lake Superior and winter.  Snow creeps into everything.  I wake up in the morning, look out my kitchen window, and see rabbits nibbling grass in my backyard.  I once opened my front door and came face-to-face with a skunk.  I won't discuss the outcome of that encounter.

Phil Legler wrote U. P. poems.  As I said, it's inevitable if you live in this place.  The poem I'm going to share tonight is one of those poems.  I remember him talking about this poem in class, telling the story that inspired it.  I can still remember how emotional he got.  Passionate.  It was quite moving.

Saint Marty may write a U. P. poem this good some day.

Local Story

by:  Phil Legler

It was after it happened
that his picture
appeared in the paper,
but all of our town agrees
he wandered in
sometime during the night
when we were sleeping.
Entering our neighborhood
what could he think
hearing the cars go by,
seeing the streetlights,
feeling the shapes
of men about him,
wishing he might return.
Imagine his surprise
coming upon our storefronts,
sidewalks, houses.
Maybe he stood looking
into our windows.
Daylight comes, of course;
and over on Terrace Drive
a housewife found him
rattling the garbage cans.
It was something to talk about.
Everybody from blocks around
soon gathered, mothers
in housecoats
bringing their children
who'd seen them only
in zoos, even their fathers
back from work.  It looked
like another street sale
going on.  By the time
he climbed a maple tree
across from Mrs. Kolski's
down on the corner,
three police cars arrived,
lights flashing, sirens
wailing to the curb.
You would have thought
some criminal was loose.
The man from the paper
shouldered in, dropping
his camera, and Mr. Carlson's
terriers jumped at the tree trunk,
clawing and barking.
All of us watched him there
in the leaves, with no place
to go, watching them
taking aim and firing.
Sprawled, held for a moment
on his final branch,
he rolled off, dropped
to the ground below.
Then, as the paper reported,
"Patrolman Yates administered
the coup de grace."
And that was the end of it.
We mulled about
for a while, not saying much.
I guess that night
most of us slept as usual,
had few bad dreams,
fewer second thoughts.
Whatever threat was there
we'd push from our minds,
out of our neighborhoods,
beyond the city limits.

The intruder