I was tempted to simply assemble some of my favorite poems from other poets to read, but I didn't think the audience would really appreciate that. After all, they are showing up to hear some original stuff from me. Oh, well.
Saint Marty did, however, find a really beautiful poem by Robert Morgan.
Audubon's Flute
by: Robert Morgan
Audubon in the summer woods
by the afternoon river sips
his flute, his fingers swimming on
the silver as silver notes pour
by the afternoon river, sips
and fills the mosquito-note air
with silver as silver notes pour
two hundred miles from any wall.
And fills the mosquito-note air
as deer and herons pause, listen,
two hundred miles from any wall,
and sunset plays the stops of river.
As deer and herons pause, listen,
the silver pipe sings on his tongue
and sunset plays the stops of river,
his breath modeling a melody
the silver pipe sings on his tongue,
coloring the trees and canebrakes,
his breath modeling a melody
over calamus and brush country,
coloring the trees and canebrakes
to the horizon and beyond,
over calamus and brush country
where the whitest moon is rising
to the horizon and beyond
his flute, his fingers swimming on
where the whitest moon is rising.
Audubon in the summer woods.
by the afternoon river sips
his flute, his fingers swimming on
the silver as silver notes pour
by the afternoon river, sips
and fills the mosquito-note air
with silver as silver notes pour
two hundred miles from any wall.
And fills the mosquito-note air
as deer and herons pause, listen,
two hundred miles from any wall,
and sunset plays the stops of river.
As deer and herons pause, listen,
the silver pipe sings on his tongue
and sunset plays the stops of river,
his breath modeling a melody
the silver pipe sings on his tongue,
coloring the trees and canebrakes,
his breath modeling a melody
over calamus and brush country,
coloring the trees and canebrakes
to the horizon and beyond,
over calamus and brush country
where the whitest moon is rising
to the horizon and beyond
his flute, his fingers swimming on
where the whitest moon is rising.
Audubon in the summer woods.
Just me, or does the "two hundred miles from any wall" take on an added significance...wish I could have been at the reading, particularly given it would have been filled with a sense of inclusiveness that other speakers last night might have been missing.
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