Poem 219

A hallmark of the metaphysical poets (John Donne etc.) – as I learnt in the one and only English course I took – was an imagistic idea or ‘conceit’ that animated each poem … this I suppose is my small version of that, distance as measured and weighed in knitting yarn, making it clear that to keep the same connection with someone who leaves the country is impossible …

… I imagine this happening at an airport – it was stewardesses rather than flight attendants back then …

( I love the alliterative twang of straight and singing across the sea … )

Further

If I loop your little finger with red wool
when you kiss me and leave
and I stay standing here
                                             not flying a kite
but flying your life out over your next
few days

                   pretend my supply of wool is no
problem that the stewardesses don't notice
your thin red connection to the ground or catch
their heels in it
                           that somehow my hands won't
burst into flames
when you reach jet speed
                                               and the thin red line goes tight
over mountains straight and singing
across the sea

                                 then we'd find how quickly 
                                 it happened early
on the first morning
that I can't hold up 
                                  my arms for the weight
of the wool gone out can't carry
that much distance …


                                               even further than that
                                                        is America