September 2018
Michael T Smith
smith859@purdue.edu
smith859@purdue.edu
I'm an Assistant Professor of the Polytechnic Institute at Purdue University, where I received my PhD in English. I teach cross-disciplinary courses that blend humanities with other areas. I have published over 60 poems in over 30 different journals (mostly within the past year). I love to travel.
DIARY X
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
which she pruned with her eyelids' trim.
Though all smiles – I could not talk to her.
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
Every smile partitioned out like a piano key,
The god of sundials, has now retired.
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
which she pruned with her eyelids' trim.
The Alderman
Write your name on the sun
and put a lid on it for the alderman,
who wears it around his neck
with the bells that sound its coming.
Unfortunately, you untamed
cannot look directly at his imported face,
cannot talk anent a philosophy,
so close your eyes and close the door.
Now the law tells the sun where to set
and when it should rise —
on Greenwich Mean Time,
kept track on nothing but a yellowed notepad.
We bargained sloppily with epees
on an arable farm in the city
for our ability to eat at dawn–
even at the dinner-table.
With Eos and her saffron-lashes
we swing back and forth
like the clock from Gog to Magog,
but never anywhere that matters.
For the alderman is followed
by a thousand others in miniature —
from the position he held onto —
all of whom are just looking for the sun.
DIARY X
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
which she pruned with her eyelids' trim.
Though all smiles – I could not talk to her.
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
Every smile partitioned out like a piano key,
The god of sundials, has now retired.
I kept the sunshine in my back pocket,
which she pruned with her eyelids' trim.
The Alderman
Write your name on the sun
and put a lid on it for the alderman,
who wears it around his neck
with the bells that sound its coming.
Unfortunately, you untamed
cannot look directly at his imported face,
cannot talk anent a philosophy,
so close your eyes and close the door.
Now the law tells the sun where to set
and when it should rise —
on Greenwich Mean Time,
kept track on nothing but a yellowed notepad.
We bargained sloppily with epees
on an arable farm in the city
for our ability to eat at dawn–
even at the dinner-table.
With Eos and her saffron-lashes
we swing back and forth
like the clock from Gog to Magog,
but never anywhere that matters.
For the alderman is followed
by a thousand others in miniature —
from the position he held onto —
all of whom are just looking for the sun.
© 2018 Michael T Smith
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF