Friday, July 27, 2012

101. Rain

Cleanse the Earth, rain;
feed the parched crops,
the sunburned acres.

Drive the men and women home,
send them driving home in cars,
in buses,
running with newspapers
wrapped around their heads;
send them back to the ones they

Wash away the scent of Wednesday night’s
wash away everything, rain,
until there is simply the rhythmic
of water dripping down the eaves
and blood coursing through my
spellbound veins.


  1. I like this one. The subject is a familiar one, of course (and the most familiar subjects can be the most poetically fertile!) -- but I think this is technically quite good. The rhythm seems quite secure, measured, unfaltering; it is "free" without being slack, and has all the artistic resolution that we associate with the fully achieved poem. Bravo!

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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.

- Emily Dickinson