Prompted by uberfrau, I’m posting an old poem. It’s pretty free-verse-y and actually has a latent political undertone (at least that’s what I remember about writing it), making offhand reference to the American bombing of Libya in 1986, an event which marked a fairly early point in the “war on terrorism.” Yes, I’m old(er). Think of this as a poetic ode to the post-modern longue durée. Poem is about fifteen years young.
Rusted metal drums of poison chemical soup
sit in the hot Mediterranean sun.
Waves of heat
up from the twisted streets of the casbah.
The barnacle ridden hull of a cargo ship
in the ancient port of Tripoli.
In a dream of another time
he can hear
of a distant engine.
Something stirs in his mind
“or is it now”
Well, OK. It was conceived as a tropism…Whatever the hell that is…