A.D. Lauren-Abunassar
When the whale is          circling I will be         lying in the bottom of   the boat committing
               plagiary: seven          words or more        wondering the water      frozen.

Surviving a heartless        winter feels like elective         surgery: some pain
           I signed up for.             For example, why        not Texas? Or California—Northstate,

driving a road with         no exits            exiting a house         with no doors.         Pressing my face
                   to glass. Why not go somewhere    with no coldness.    Why not peer from the edge

of the boat,         say to the whale:            I read about you.                Was you, I think
           as a girl who cut                 heads off flowers.                         Who examined the mud-

bank for tiny.             There is no place where cold            cannot go. Perhaps
               a reason. Small         as it may               be.                                    A whale changes

the light of an ocean.        Seems to be circling    its own                         small reason.
             A whale knows                     that stealing is                                necessary for proving

one's life is a collection             of activity. Much                                         like the falling of
                snow. An act               that feels much                                  like an act. Confessing:

in all my life no one                     ever offered                                      to build me
                a boat.                     But why read         into the absence of             offerings? Why not

think of my whale         as my whale    to examine or leave        unexamined. I suppose
         there's no kind way          to leave someone,             suppose there's no hold

in a boat. Just                 a distance from                 water. And life                 is that also:
                   collections of distance.                        Would you believe    this began as

a love note?     Some desperate unclutching         of sound. But of        what and for
               whom? I suppose         there is no place                    where answers stave

coldness. Suppose         I have lost that false            start. Gone plunging my
       hands in confession:             It's been years     since I fell in        love with the light

of an ocean.       Since I turned down the sight              of a whale.         Years since I did
                               some small something          with snow.
READ ABOUT TODAY'S POEM
Share Share
Tweet Tweet
Forward Forward
The first line of this is actually taken from another poem I wrote and scrapped almost a decade ago; I kept returning to the idea of language-making at the end of the world/life. So much of my work is about wandering, longing, poetry as defense, escape, record-keeping, questioning, etc. Here though, it’s also about the use of language even when it fails our intentions. When I reread this poem, I see how much of it is about the act of writing, even more than the act of living.

A.D. Lauren-Abunassar on Something I Wrote Down
Formal color headshot of Ada Limón
"U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón To Visit National Parks For Poetry Project"

"Limon's 'You Are Here: Poetry in Parks' initiative will feature site-specific poetry installations and will transform picnic tables into works of public art featuring an American poem with a meaningful connection to the park. While in the parks to unveil the picnic tables, Limón will also engage with local youth, tribes and/or community groups."

via NATIONAL PARKS TRAVELER
READ ALL TODAY'S HEADLINES
Cover image of David Keplinger's book, Ice
What Sparks Poetry:
David Keplinger on "The Ice Age Wolf That Love Is"

"Dogor was discovered in 2019 beneath receding permafrost in this coldest region of Russia. The delight I felt (beholding his small face, seemingly glistening wet nose, whiskers, closed puppy-eyes, tufts of hair and preserved tongue) was tempered by a certain grief, the recognition that it was climate change that had made this vision of our deep past possible."
READ THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
donate
View in browser

You have received this email because you submitted your email address at www.poems.com. 
If you would like to unsubscribe please click here.

© 2024 Poetry Daily, Poetry Daily, MS 3E4, 4400 University Dr., Fairfax, VA 22030

Design by the Binding Agency