Monday, May 21, 2012

I'm thinking, with sorrow, of Maine poet Michael Macklin, who died suddenly over the weekend. The following poem has nothing to do with him personally, only with the need to mourn.


Dawn Potter

[a version of this poem appeared in Sou'wester (fall 2011)]

And on her mind is all the waste
and the waiting, and the pain
of wanting someone to listen
to the pain she can’t talk about, like how her lover
is a drunk, and how she is afraid
of time and of her mind
circling its mud-wrenched, idiot track.
And meanwhile a neighbor expires
in a strange bed, little birds
flutter in the bony lilacs,
            her lover slides another blank-faced bottle
                        under the torn seat of his pickup.
Wind blunders among the empty branches,
            raking their frail tips against a livid sky.
                        Another hour lost, she thinks, but hours later,
in the medicated dark, her mind
and what’s on her mind keep ticking, ticking,
stupidly ticking on.


Maureen said...

Both the poem to which you like and your own are wonderful.

I'm not familiar with Macklin's work but his poem impels me to look for more of his work. Thank you for the link.

Dawn Potter said...

Michael was a dear man and a gentle soul; and as a poet, he was a dedicated seeker. I believe Moon Pie Press published a chapbook, if you're interested in reading more work:

And thanks for the kind words about my poem. XX