Thinking of this poem on the anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster, April 26, 1986.
Painting by Jim Kemp.
Throughout our listening area
light pollution. Evening haze
drifts down from some secret smelter
depending on which wind blows. Small
particulate matter fills the air, fills our lungs
with tiny lumps that hang there undetected
except we can no longer fully breathe.
Cosmic clouds descend upon us. Below
breath. Below thought. Below bellow.
Probability of precipitation. Mixed rain
and thunder showers. Severe weather
warning. War in heaven, warming
torrents into twisters. Forecast unforeseen.
The radio calls for showers. Fog patches.
Clouds clog the mind, crowding thought.
Now calm come… clear of cloud…
I’m thinking stars. Or stars are thinking me.
Where are they? Beyond the veil, still
twinkling, emitting their own dust trails.
Sound/performance poet Penn Kemp lives in London, Ontario. UWO has asked her to be writer-in-residence for 2009-2010. Among her publications are more than twenty-five books of poetry and drama, ten CDs of Sound Opera and…
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