Great Writing Transcends


I consider it an example of a great writing if, despite having differing world views as compared to the author and limited interest in the selected topic, I enthusiastically read and reread a specific piece multiple times. With each review, a mental image resembling the author’s written narrative becomes clearer until sharply focused. After finishing the work, I then search for other writings by the author, and when found, am not disappointed. Such is the case with poet Karen Weyant.

The following poem appeared in the Coal Hill Journal in Autumn 2008:

--The Girl Who Turned Cartwheels--

It’s dusk. And dry. Boys in the neighborhood

ride their bikes, back tires kicking up dust,

spokes spinning like the cartwheels I turned

that summer those kids disappeared. For hours

every day, I too, vanished without explanation.

The rails are better than school balance beams,

I explained, coming home with blood

on my elbows, cinders in my knees.

My aunt clutched her rosary beads, prayed

to Saint Nicholas. My mother

hugged me. And then had nightmares.

I felt trapped in a car trunk, she said

to my father, sure I wasn’t listening.

I didn’t understand the crime done

so far away, the local girl and her kids

now gone. I just practiced more —

until my back was straight, until my arms

locked tight, until I no longer fell.

When my fingers burned on the August steel,

I moved to the shade. Only the sumac noticed,

bowing to my dismounts, applauding

through the rustle of dry leaves. I didn’t stop

until the rails trembled. I was sure

ghosts were there, somewhere,

making the metal beneath my fingers,

my hands, my toes, tremble.

Weyant has another poem entitled “The Flyfisherman’s Daughter” that I have only found published in hardcopy. If I ever see that work on the Internet, I’ll post a link to it-—her work is moving.

3 comments:

Kraxpelax said...

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My Poetry:

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My Philosophy:

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My photographies from Stockholm:

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Min svenska poesi:

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- Peter Ingestad, Sweden

Slamdunk said...

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mrs. fuzz said...

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