Tom Andrews
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Michael
Sep 19, 2009, 3:13:58 PM9/19/09
to Poem of the Week
Recently Tom Fitzpatrick steered me toward this poem by Tom Andrews
yet another talented American poet that I did not know. Andres grew up
in West Virginia, found his way to poetry at Hope College, and then
Oberlin and the University of Virginia. He died of an illness in
2001.
For any of you within a 1,000 miles of Massachusetts, I strongly
recommend making sure you can catch some of the 2009 Massachusetts
Poetry Festival October 15th through 18th. I am unabashedly proud of
what we have created. Please take a few minutes to glance at www.masspoetry.org
Yrs
Michael
Evening Song
Tom Andrews
The crickets go on with their shrill music.
The sun drops down.
What was it my brother said to me once
in Charleston, before he disappeared that spring
like the quick wake of a water mite?
This was 1980, evening, the porch lights burning.
He was reading from The Cloud of Unknowing.
Robins gossiped in the poplars,
moths spiraled across the uncut grass.
Moonlight wormed through the neighboring lawns.
We must therefore pray... not in many words,
but in a little word of one syllable.
Didn’t he say forgiveness was his homely double?
Didn’t he say what I wanted him to say? Maybe
I wasn’t listening, chewing a branch of sassafras...
But I doubt it. As I doubt, now, that the life
of my lawn is a still life, the moon and shrill chants
opinions on despair. There are times
when the sound the world makes is a little word.
Something like help, or yes...
yet another talented American poet that I did not know. Andres grew up
in West Virginia, found his way to poetry at Hope College, and then
Oberlin and the University of Virginia. He died of an illness in
2001.
For any of you within a 1,000 miles of Massachusetts, I strongly
recommend making sure you can catch some of the 2009 Massachusetts
Poetry Festival October 15th through 18th. I am unabashedly proud of
what we have created. Please take a few minutes to glance at www.masspoetry.org
Yrs
Michael
Evening Song
Tom Andrews
The crickets go on with their shrill music.
The sun drops down.
What was it my brother said to me once
in Charleston, before he disappeared that spring
like the quick wake of a water mite?
This was 1980, evening, the porch lights burning.
He was reading from The Cloud of Unknowing.
Robins gossiped in the poplars,
moths spiraled across the uncut grass.
Moonlight wormed through the neighboring lawns.
We must therefore pray... not in many words,
but in a little word of one syllable.
Didn’t he say forgiveness was his homely double?
Didn’t he say what I wanted him to say? Maybe
I wasn’t listening, chewing a branch of sassafras...
But I doubt it. As I doubt, now, that the life
of my lawn is a still life, the moon and shrill chants
opinions on despair. There are times
when the sound the world makes is a little word.
Something like help, or yes...
Nicco Mele
Sep 21, 2009, 9:22:33 AM9/21/09
to poem-of-...@googlegroups.com
you know tom andrews wrote one of my favorite poems -- The Hemophiliac's Motorcycle - I will have to send it to you if you dont' know it. it's quite long but simply exceptional.
do you have time to catch up this week to talk echoditot/poetry?
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