 Poetry: July 15, 2015 Issue [#7103] |
  Poetry
This week: Observations on a Stormy Weekend Edited by: Fyn  
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Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.~~Plutarch
When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.~~John F. Kennedy
Poetry is a release of something previously unknown into the visible. You write to invite that, to make of yourself a gathering of the unexpected and, with luck, of the unexpectable.~~Jane Hirshfield
The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.~~Robert Penn Warren
The more poetry you have in the head, the more poetry you will understand because you will be getting to the roots of what it is that makes people write poetry at all.~~Peter Davison
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The Weather Channel had warned us, the phone alerts beeped and, after a bit, the sirens in town began blaring. Somewhere in our county, terrible weather was immanent. Used to be the sirens went off for a tornado. Now they go off for a variety of reasons. I prefer the days when it meant a specific form of weather. As a result, no one immediately scurries to storm shelters, we gather outside and watch the sky. Self-defeating warning system, in my book.
So, we are all outside, kids are gathered inside, but the adults mingle on the street, eyes scanning the skies and wondering why the sirens are going off. According to my phone alert, a severe thunderstorm with the possibility of hail is headed our way from the southwest. Looks like it will split before it reaches us. Storms do that around here. We live four miles from Hell, Mi. We are in what is locally called 'the Hell Hole' because, for some bizarre reason, the majority of storms split and go north and south of us.
I'm outside with my camera. (Cameras on cell phones was a really good idea!) Southwest of us is a beautiful, textbook super-cell. The highest parts are a pile of clouds, boiling up, catching the sun. Edges are tinted pink and gold. It is beautiful. Awe inspiring. The parts underneath are gritty grey, muddy. We can see lightning flashes. The interior of the cloud lights, a neon pink effect that causes even the die-hard sports guys to take a break from discussing the baseball scores and the wonder if there will be a rain delay. Far away, no thunder follows, just a skyward light show.
Clouds gather in, obscuring the mostly blue sky of minutes ago. There is a distinct green tinge, somewhere between lime green and olive drab. A cool wind breezes up and the talk shifts to out drafts and loss of humidity. There is a cold cut to the wind, I shiver, wish for a jacket, but I don't want to miss the changing sky. My teenaged birch trees sway, bend further than I am happy with. My dog stands, feet planted, nose high, scenting the air.
Clouds roil and the underside is now almost black, in stark contrast to the rosy pink-gold of the towering top. A wall cloud says one neighbor. Another disagrees and conversation blows to which is what, the inevitable discussion from the weather-watchers on out street. Flower petals detach and tumble across the yard, yellow, purple and blue confetti scattered across the freshly mown grass like sprinkles on a summer ice cream cone. No rain, but suddenly we are pelted with pea-sized hail, stinging exposed skin. We collect handfuls before it stops as suddenly as it began. The massive cloud to our south veers farther east and south of us, no danger there, but another, more to the north, peeks out beyond the row of white pines that tower between back yards.
Another alert pings our phones. Several minutes worth as different carriers seem to have differing delays in sending them out. Our phones offer a chorus of thunder, rain, cackling birds and other notification alerts. Someone's phone plays 'Stormy Weather.' Someone else's repeats 'The sky is falling' in a panicked voice. We laugh. A wife whines for her husband to come inside. My daughter calls from where she lives, a hour southwest of us. She says they are getting hammered there. Hail, somewhere between the size of a quarter and a half-dollar is splashing into the lake, bouncing off her deck. I can hear it, along with crashing thunder. I suggest she gets off the phone...and the deck. A long, low roll of thunder off in the distance here. It rumbles along for several moments, lackadaisically, in no hurry to end.
Lazy fat drops of rain begin to plop down, splashing, dotting the driveway with almost flower-shaped splats. The rain is chilly though and shortly turns into a cold shower. I move to the porch, the men continue talking. Until. Suddenly the street lights up as a crack of thunder reverberates. My ears are ringing. The stalwart men run for cover! Alone on the porch, I watch as the rain, downpour at this point, flattens my mint. I watch as petal after petal drops from newly bloomed rose. Windy now, the birch trees shiver under the onslaught. A wife across the street comes to her door, aims the 'wifely' 'Come in NOW' look and he scuttles home amid laughter. Moments later everyone scattered as the storm's intensity increased.
Fourth of July didn't hold a candle to the fireworks we saw. When lightning strikes a tree, the whole tree lights up, blue-ish green. The crack of thunder was deafening! Luckily the pouring rain extinguished the fire and the tree landed without injury to car or house. My ears crackled for several minutes. According to my phone, we were getting a 'light shower.'
Half hour (and an inch and a half of rain) later, the water-works stopped, the clouds parted and the sun came out. The humidity almost went unnoticed as we all took pictures of the dazzling double rainbow. Truly one of the most vivid rainbows I've ever seen, each color distinct and vibrant. The mint perked up a bit, scenting the air peppermint, but there was no saving my roses. The sunlight glinted off the leaves of the birch trees gilding them golden. Day dusked down to twilight. Out back, fire in the pit, we talked of storms and rainbows, work weeks ahead and s'mores made with peanut-butter cups.
Perhaps five hours had passed. Most remembered the tree and the rainbows. Missed so much more. As I headed in to bed, I silently tucked the tail end of the day into my mental notebook, to be dissected down the road as bits and pieces here and there will find their way into my writing. Or, a newsletter.
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Seshat  says : I concur that as Poets it is a complete unique experience to the writer and each respective reader. Poetry is experienced to me not just read. It is at the base level raw and unformed on paper yet emotional and full of love, pain grace, dignity, comedy or tragedy on another level. Interpretation has so many variations they cannot all be defined. It is never the same for anyone who writes or reads, oh what bliss this is to put it simply.
Ren the Klutz!  writes:Great NL, Robin! I must agree, and the more I read and learn about poetry, writing it and reading other great poets, the more I learn that so many different types of poets and poetry exist and it is all good to someone. Much of it has opened my eyes to new ways of writing and appreciating other poets work on new levels. You know what they say, the best way to write better is to read more!
Mary Ann MCPhedran  comments: Poems are words, pictures, feelings all put together which are all part of the five senses, and form poetry. Sight a picture of beauty, scenery, a tree even a rose. The touch of a beautiful woman or a man, feelings . Smell of fear and death. All these feeling can perform expression and words from the heart. This is my opinion of poetry. Thanks for sharing this with me. I enjoyed the read. Mary. .Ann MCPhedran
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