No doubt, contemporary poetry is every bit as diverse and unpredictable as it was 100 years ago. There is a bit of everything out there--from more traditional stylists to wild esoteric poets to accessible to the inaccessible. Poetry represents the spectrum quite well.
This past week I also began a more extensive record-keeping of my own published poems--enough to create a book I would think. And I've also been perusing my hundreds in backlog, taking note of some of the better pieces. Here's one about autumn that always makes me smile.
Autumn
We are drunk on the scent of
yellow:
The maples reaching for the
arching blues
Of cloudless sky,
The wrens and finches
Propping up the feeders and the
benches
Streaked with stains of fresh
chartreuse.
The grass is bent and measured by
The welcome shadow of the bus
Where children fly from yellow
doors
Enjoined in serendipitous
Shrieks of laughter.
And raking lawns we mark the time
By foliage fallen from the trees,
Their veins and codices sublime
To make us float upon their seas
Of roiling wind-swept atmosphere
Where, drenched in color, we
appear.
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