I spent four days on a 30-acre pile of rocks off the coast of New Hampshire. From the front porch of the Oceanic Hotel we watched a lightning storm circle the island. A flock of cedar waxwings rose from one of the few trees. Musicians, tucked into corners and side rooms, murmured the words of poets. In other corners and side rooms, poets sang the tunes of musicians. Collaborations buzzed and hummed. Meanwhile, the thunder growled and the lightning flashed.
Not everything was perfect, of course. I sat in on a songwriting workshop and wrote the worst lyrics ever written: a humbling experience and medicine I deserved to taste. She who gives out writing prompts ought to struggle with one herself. On the other hand, I did barter a book of poetry for a massage.
2 comments:
The storm on Star Island was a gift.
A green sky hovers.
Star Island looks to herself.
Trees still, leaves start to flutter.
Windows are shut, screens pushed inward,
rush-seat rockers are realigned
under porch roofs, shadows swallowed.
Mosquitoes are forced to ground.
Yellow slickers dart from Marshman to Newton.
A blue-darkness rushes, clouds mingle. The storm
overtakes the Island, gently at first
with a misting rain.
Wind grows stronger,
sky back-lit by sheet lightening,
thunder claps, roars, cannons.
Rain falls like stampeding horses,
first vertical, then horizontal.
Just as sudden it is over.
Strawberry-cream heavens to the west.
Lone seagull aviators
dare the winds as they glide,
wings spread on air currents,
soar in the moment’s calm.
Waiting for the second round.
North Atlantic storms are known
to circle back around the island.
First a low rumble.
Timpani.
Lightning forks from sky to ground,
Horizontally from cloud to cloud,
Stretched across like electric spider webs.
Photographers set up their tripods.
I love this so much, Dita.
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