These poems first appeared in the book "Son of Igor"
by Glenn Robert Swetman. Writer-in-residence at William Carey
College in Gulfport, MS, Swetman is the author of more than a
dozen volumes of poetry.
by Glenn Robert Swetman. Writer-in-residence at William Carey
College in Gulfport, MS, Swetman is the author of more than a
dozen volumes of poetry.
BAYOU COUNTRY
This poem is a crayfish in my head.
He dances toward my eyes.
His pinchers ready as I precind
the diseased gas pump standing by
the gray stucco-fronted
empty shack beneath the
rusted Esso sign that hands
askew like a broken arm healed wrong.
Forward across the damp gray
the crayskittles now, claws extended
for the unsuspecting image.His antennae touch a flaw, and –
pop,
he snap-tails back
against my skull’s sloped bank
and sinks again into
my mind’s dark mud.
This poem is a crayfish in my head.
He dances toward my eyes.
His pinchers ready as I precind
the diseased gas pump standing by
the gray stucco-fronted
empty shack beneath the
rusted Esso sign that hands
askew like a broken arm healed wrong.
Forward across the damp gray
the crayskittles now, claws extended
for the unsuspecting image.His antennae touch a flaw, and –
pop,
he snap-tails back
against my skull’s sloped bank
and sinks again into
my mind’s dark mud.
SOUTH LOUISIANA
I
Only Thibodaux,
the air so heavy with wet
you can smell it
and clouds
like round white
stones
weighted on each other against
the bluehill sky
waiting to fall.
Beneath ach stone
gray shadows grow.
The stone becomes
shadow,
rock, the whole
sky gray mountain looming
and thunder snaking
its rattle beneath each rock.
II
It rained last
night – slicked back
the black-eyed susans’
petals
like fletchings,
and beat
the cultured white rose
into an early gray
old-age.
Only the nameless
yellow weed flower
thrives – as I hope.
III
This hollowed morning
sky hiccoughed
rolled, stood,
a blue-plate bowl hanging heavy
underhanded messenger of nought.
Hope is all
that any morning holds –
and a new way of looking.
The rest hides
Behind hungover sky.
I
Only Thibodaux,
the air so heavy with wet
you can smell it
and clouds
like round white
stones
weighted on each other against
the bluehill sky
waiting to fall.
Beneath ach stone
gray shadows grow.
The stone becomes
shadow,
rock, the whole
sky gray mountain looming
and thunder snaking
its rattle beneath each rock.
II
It rained last
night – slicked back
the black-eyed susans’
petals
like fletchings,
and beat
the cultured white rose
into an early gray
old-age.
Only the nameless
yellow weed flower
thrives – as I hope.
III
This hollowed morning
sky hiccoughed
rolled, stood,
a blue-plate bowl hanging heavy
underhanded messenger of nought.
Hope is all
that any morning holds –
and a new way of looking.
The rest hides
Behind hungover sky.
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Glenn R. Swetman