March 2019
David Graham
grahamd@ripon.edu
grahamd@ripon.edu
I live in Glens Falls, NY. I've published a number of books of poetry and my work is also easy to find online, in this journal as well as many others. A gallery of my photography is is also available here: http://instagram.com/doctorjazz
When Firestone Feinberg suggested we might submit “My Best Poem” this month, I admit I was a little disappointed, because I essentially did that last month, and even wrote a Poetic License column about the problem of choosing such a thing. Poetic License #33
But upon further thought I’m probably like most poets in the hope that maybe, just maybe, my best poem still lies ahead. That hope—or fantasy—is one thing that keeps me going. So here it is, My Best Poem of 2019 (so far) . . . (maybe).
My Poetic License column this month confesses one of my deepest addictions.
When Firestone Feinberg suggested we might submit “My Best Poem” this month, I admit I was a little disappointed, because I essentially did that last month, and even wrote a Poetic License column about the problem of choosing such a thing. Poetic License #33
But upon further thought I’m probably like most poets in the hope that maybe, just maybe, my best poem still lies ahead. That hope—or fantasy—is one thing that keeps me going. So here it is, My Best Poem of 2019 (so far) . . . (maybe).
My Poetic License column this month confesses one of my deepest addictions.
People in the street
seldom come at you, slashing
with a knife. They may mutter
when your dog sniffs their pants
or look away from your tentative
smile. Mostly they don’t see you
at all. You’re like those blurs
in old photos with long exposure
times, vaguely human-shaped
clouds drifting along the street
between the crisply focused trees,
shop awnings, and hitching posts.
Sometimes, of course, people
in the street do stop and beg you
for something—money, sex, food,
your signature on their crucial
petition. But otherwise they walk
right through the cloud of you,
like people from two entirely
different years. Very seldom does
anyone embrace you, take a drunken
swing at your fat mug, or shout
threats you cannot understand.
At such rare times you flinch
away, break off eye contact, and
hurry into the future, as if you’ll
be safer there than in this blurred,
noisy, unaccountable past.
© 2019 David Graham
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