April 2018
DeWitt Clinton
clintond@uww.edu
clintond@uww.edu
NOTE: I found this poem on an imaginary interview with a rune in a dusty pile of poems I had forgotten about, but considered it as an ars poetica, for most poems are mysteries, aren't they? This poem may have appeared in print years ago, but I can't find any record of such a miracle. I continue to try to find the balance between a yoga practice, training for races, and a long interest in short and long poems. The little village of Shorewood, in Wisconsin, is home.
Interview with Rune
Where do most (poems) grow?
Under hate or injustice
Or regrettably in the tumbling
Of love and death.
How do they ignite the world?
In the far recesses
Of sleep.
Can any ever move a stone?
Once in Ireland we’ve heard
This, & of course, whenever
We hear this, we wonder more.
We’ve heard some lie in wait
For countless years. How
Can this be true? Few are ever
Present when the two are one.
Some have tried counting all
Of the many. Is this wise?
No one here has ever
Quantified such madness.
When some fall asleep why do so
Many rhyme in triplets?
Some who dream see this
As the only desires left.
Why do so many appear when
One or two begin to walk?
We’ve heard this also of some
Who swim near the bottoms.
Most stay in inner recesses when
Not in use. Why is this?
For if not there, where
Could anyone feel safe?
We’ve not seen odes to fallen soldiers
In quite some time. Can you tell us more?
So many have died since the first wars, few
Notice the losses & stones in neat rows
Replace what once was sorrow.
Birds have sometimes been thought
To hold the last stanzas.
Yes & in the howling winds.
Do they ever seek their own solace
As we do?
Unfortunately, no.
Their only salvation is being found.
©2018 DeWitt Clinton
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