Huffington Post reviews Saint Mary's Brenda Hillman: What Poetry Can Do
The day is finished; the port is closed.
Some carry fire in red shirts.
Some make sparks with their bikes.
Some bring boxes of burning words grown from roots
in the earth. Truckers
with flaming decals on their trucks.
Whack. Get well T. Won't kill with you.
able to breathe for the E,
breathe into the prongs. Slide on its back,
shadows wait under the strakes
as anarchy waits in the novel or sex
waits in college, a feeling
individual letters have before
a word is spelled--;
middle of summer
t t t t ermites riddle the wood
No one yet has ever chosen misery
Those that seem to have done so
Haven't any more than they have
Chosen this mist or is it rain
We would first have to own ourselves
Then give up on them entirely
The world is still for you, the situation
Excellent, there is only a percent
Chance of anything happening.
Never before has our country been
So sliding along its seven days
Without a formula, the well plugged,
House retaken, bargaining done.
We must rise as if to see what is
Really going on among stones
Hunting heaven, in the towers
Hung up again outdoors
Where unmet needs fall back
the sort that bring
Governments down, maybe endlessly,
Without anything really changing
At all for the students, still 11:36 am.
In Berkeley as the women of Cairo
March to say again to the military
They'll walk with their something to lose
Past the steel reeds, and to say
Hey, I'm tired of dying.