October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The shuddering lightning is old: these colors crash down with elegance, wild flowers from the sky demanding entrance into this town. It is as if a pulse of immortality were singing before us in glory: thoughtful roses and celestial elegies. Go to your room disturbed only by sunlight and war at the mouth of the hurricane and laugh at the golden sonatas at the dusky roots of all dreaming. Shuddering lightning is at war with your melting bed drenched with the music of string quartets, and now a rainstorm falls through the darkness of a completely dim cake’s densest thought.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The names on the Declaration of Independence were people who risked a King’s fury to rewrite the future by way of revolution. They dared this king to be their damnation. They saw another future in these waterways and woods as the sunlight here chipped wisdom into their faces. Studying maps by lamplight, they were surrounded by a country of damp, black earth below open spaces shuddering with lightning and rain. The names on the Declaration of Independence scorched history and set their moment apart in a way that still quickens the native pulse with the mountainous immortality old fingers created.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
A prism rests in the colored chambers. Now I hold it in my planetary hands. Here are the bluegreen shadows of the moon, underlined by smoke. I hold a woodcut, someone’s keepsake for a hundred years. I offer broken words for the future from my colored chambers and ask cold questions in a little town. Melody grows. A hieroglyph of summer and of the future shall begin with this rainstorm, a distillation of fire. Meteors honey the night. There must be meteors also falling into the sun. This poem will be their elegy, or such is my curious morning thought.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
These are the moon’s blue colors, or many of them. These are the rainstorms at the hurricane’s mouth. These are the colored chambers that break our fingers, break them and outline our faces. These are the bones cracking inside our planetary hands. This is the smoke that creates isolation. This is the smoke that is the beauty of darkness. These towns concentrate on the heavens from their bluegreen shadows. I’ll make words to ripple forever, placing them in the hands of one hundred years. There is so much rubbish up in the clouds. This is for the terrified persecuted ones.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Elements of truth clash in my recitation of the yellow sun done in the grand manner when I was alone. The mirrors shake under the fluorescent lights, blessing thunder-lit music that touches the structure. Those at the back of the universe are listening carefully. Behind the elms the well-masoned wall comforts the streets with its quiet music. That the universe is a poetry is agreeable and wild, as wild as thunder and birches and thoughts of morning. Glistening with victory, the glass panics (at great cost). One person is weary, remembering the unconquered and half-asleep newspaper headlines.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The moon now floating distantly burns my one hour of contemplation out of October with a rude math. Thoughts are crushed poisonously by the wrong temperature. October is a meandering–a street without dreams, a wrong way. Your heart has still wondered what speeds everything. It is a good, long sequence and vision. This is the now we have been needing. Our need for Orange descends through the woods just below capable Orion, and Bootes, ghost with a shield. Gladly warming your hands by the crackling fire you are. A tin twilight waits for you–muddled confrontation, a blue Venus.
