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Best Famous Know Nothing Poems

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Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Smoke and Steel

 SMOKE of the fields in spring is one,
Smoke of the leaves in autumn another.
Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel,
They all go up in a line with a smokestack,
Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind.

If the north wind comes they run to the south.
If the west wind comes they run to the east.
 By this sign
 all smokes
 know each other.
Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn,
Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue,
By the oath of work they swear: “I know you.”

Hunted and hissed from the center
Deep down long ago when God made us over,
Deep down are the cinders we came from—
You and I and our heads of smoke.

Some of the smokes God dropped on the job
Cross on the sky and count our years
And sing in the secrets of our numbers;
Sing their dawns and sing their evenings,
Sing an old log-fire song:

You may put the damper up,
You may put the damper down,
The smoke goes up the chimney just the same.

Smoke of a city sunset skyline,
Smoke of a country dusk horizon—
 They cross on the sky and count our years.

Smoke of a brick-red dust
 Winds on a spiral
 Out of the stacks
For a hidden and glimpsing moon.
This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill,
This is the slang of coal and steel.
The day-gang hands it to the night-gang,
The night-gang hands it back.

Stammer at the slang of this—
Let us understand half of it.
 In the rolling mills and sheet mills,
 In the harr and boom of the blast fires,
 The smoke changes its shadow
 And men change their shadow;
 A ******, a wop, a bohunk changes.

 A bar of steel—it is only
Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.
A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,
And left—smoke and the blood of a man
And the finished steel, chilled and blue.

So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,
And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,
A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;
And always dark in the heart and through it,
 Smoke and the blood of a man.
Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men.

In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys
The smoke nights write their oaths:
Smoke into steel and blood into steel;
Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.
Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.

 The birdmen drone
 in the blue; it is steel
 a motor sings and zooms.

Steel barb-wire around The Works.
Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works.
Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells.
The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel.
Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped:
Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky.

Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up—
Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven.

Smoke nights now, Steve.
Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday;
Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today.
Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always.
 Smoke nights now.
 To-morrow something else.

Luck moons come and go:
Five men swim in a pot of red steel.
Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel:
Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils
And the sucking plungers of sea-fighting turbines.
Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station.
So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors.
Peepers, skulkers—they shadow-dance in laughing tombs.
They are always there and they never answer.

One of them said: “I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country.”
One: “Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell.”
One: “I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves.”
And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home.
Look for them back of a steel vault door.

They laugh at the cost.
They lift the birdmen into the blue.
It is steel a motor sings and zooms.

In the subway plugs and drums,
In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel,
Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders,
They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost.

The ovens light a red dome.
Spools of fire wind and wind.
Quadrangles of crimson sputter.
The lashes of dying maroon let down.
Fire and wind wash out the slag.
Forever the slag gets washed in fire and wind.
The anthem learned by the steel is:
 Do this or go hungry.
Look for our rust on a plow.
Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz.
Look at our job in the running wagon wheat.

Fire and wind wash at the slag.
Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors—
Oh, the sleeping slag from the mountains, the slag-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads.
Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world.

Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits
Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it.
The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch.

Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing,
Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks—flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down;
Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens;
Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves;
Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold bird-wings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons;
I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke;
And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair,
Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring:
 “Since you know all
 and I know nothing,
 tell me what I dreamed last night.”

Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain,
in only a flicker of wind,
are caught and lost and never known again.

A pool of moonshine comes and waits,
but never waits long: the wind picks up
loose gold like this and is gone.

A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed
on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine;
sleeps slant-eyed a million years,
sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths,
a shirt of gathering sod and loam.

The wind never bothers … a bar of steel.
The wind picks only .. pearl cobwebs .. pools of moonshine.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

A Game Of Chess

  The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Glowed on the marble, where the glass
  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  80
  (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
  Reflecting light upon the table as
  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
  In vials of ivory and coloured glass
  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
  Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
  That freshened from the window, these ascended                          90
  In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
  Huge sea-wood fed with copper
  Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
  In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
  Above the antique mantel was displayed
  As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
  The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
  So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale                             100
  Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
  And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
  "Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
  And other withered stumps of time
  Were told upon the walls; staring forms
  Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
  Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
  Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
  Spread out in fiery points
  Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.                        110

  "My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
  "Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
  "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
  "I never know what you are thinking. Think."

  I think we are in rats' alley
  Where the dead men lost their bones.

  "What is that noise?"
                               The wind under the door.
  "What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
                               Nothing again nothing.                     120
                                                                    "Do
  "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
  "Nothing?"

     I remember
  Those are pearls that were his eyes.
  "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"
                                                                      But
  O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
  It's so elegant
  So intelligent                                                          130
  "What shall I do now? What shall I do?"
  I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
  "With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
  "What shall we ever do?"
                                       The hot water at ten.
  And if it rains, a closed car at four.
  And we shall play a game of chess,
  Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

  When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
  I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,                          140
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
  He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
  To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
  You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
  He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
  And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
  He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
  And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
  Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.                       150
  Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
  Others can pick and choose if you can't.
  But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
  You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
  (And her only thirty-one.)
  I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
  It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
  (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)              160
  The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
  You are a proper fool, I said.
  Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
  What you get married for if you don't want children?
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
  And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
  Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.                    170
  Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
  Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

Old and New

If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago 
He would've thought they were birds 
Or angels from another world 
Or messengers from other planets. 

Every new machine would have surprised him— 
The car, TV, radio, phone, camera. 
He would've thought he was a savage 
Who didn't understand. 

If he saw a computer, 
Watching people talking on the internet, 
He would have thought it was a civilization 
Much more advanced and ahead of his. 

And if he stayed longer among the messengers 
He would have learned that every child had the knowledge 
And understanding of these things 
Or how to use all of them. 

Yet, after a while, he would have noticed 
That none of them were advanced enough 
To be labeled as those who know more 
Than the one who said: I know nothing. 
Written by Margaret Atwood | Create an image from this poem

The Rest

 The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Lancelot

 Gawaine, aware again of Lancelot 
In the King’s garden, coughed and followed him; 
Whereat he turned and stood with folded arms 
And weary-waiting eyes, cold and half-closed— 
Hard eyes, where doubts at war with memories
Fanned a sad wrath. “Why frown upon a friend? 
Few live that have too many,” Gawaine said, 
And wished unsaid, so thinly came the light 
Between the narrowing lids at which he gazed. 
“And who of us are they that name their friends?” 
Lancelot said. “They live that have not any. 
Why do they live, Gawaine? Ask why, and answer.” 

Two men of an elected eminence, 
They stood for a time silent. Then Gawaine, 
Acknowledging the ghost of what was gone,
Put out his hand: “Rather, I say, why ask? 
If I be not the friend of Lancelot, 
May I be nailed alive along the ground 
And emmets eat me dead. If I be not 
The friend of Lancelot, may I be fried
With other liars in the pans of hell. 
What item otherwise of immolation 
Your Darkness may invent, be it mine to endure 
And yours to gloat on. For the time between, 
Consider this thing you see that is my hand.
If once, it has been yours a thousand times; 
Why not again? Gawaine has never lied 
To Lancelot; and this, of all wrong days— 
This day before the day when you go south 
To God knows what accomplishment of exile—
Were surely an ill day for lies to find 
An issue or a cause or an occasion. 
King Ban your father and King Lot my father, 
Were they alive, would shake their heads in sorrow 
To see us as we are, and I shake mine
In wonder. Will you take my hand, or no? 
Strong as I am, I do not hold it out 
For ever and on air. You see—my hand.” 
Lancelot gave his hand there to Gawaine, 
Who took it, held it, and then let it go,
Chagrined with its indifference. 
“Yes, Gawaine, 
I go tomorrow, and I wish you well; 
You and your brothers, Gareth, Gaheris,— 
And Agravaine; yes, even Agravaine,
Whose tongue has told all Camelot and all Britain 
More lies than yet have hatched of Modred’s envy. 
You say that you have never lied to me, 
And I believe it so. Let it be so. 
For now and always. Gawaine, I wish you well.
Tomorrow I go south, as Merlin went, 
But not for Merlin’s end. I go, Gawaine, 
And leave you to your ways. There are ways left.” 
“There are three ways I know, three famous ways, 
And all in Holy Writ,” Gawaine said, smiling:
“The snake’s way and the eagle’s way are two, 
And then we have a man’s way with a maid— 
Or with a woman who is not a maid. 
Your late way is to send all women scudding, 
To the last flash of the last cramoisy,
While you go south to find the fires of God. 
Since we came back again to Camelot 
From our immortal Quest—I came back first— 
No man has known you for the man you were 
Before you saw whatever ’t was you saw,
To make so little of kings and queens and friends 
Thereafter. Modred? Agravaine? My brothers? 
And what if they be brothers? What are brothers, 
If they be not our friends, your friends and mine? 
You turn away, and my words are no mark
On you affection or your memory? 
So be it then, if so it is to be. 
God save you, Lancelot; for by Saint Stephen, 
You are no more than man to save yourself.” 

“Gawaine, I do not say that you are wrong,
Or that you are ill-seasoned in your lightness; 
You say that all you know is what you saw, 
And on your own averment you saw nothing. 
Your spoken word, Gawaine, I have not weighed 
In those unhappy scales of inference
That have no beam but one made out of hates 
And fears, and venomous conjecturings; 
Your tongue is not the sword that urges me 
Now out of Camelot. Two other swords 
There are that are awake, and in their scabbards
Are parching for the blood of Lancelot. 
Yet I go not away for fear of them, 
But for a sharper care. You say the truth, 
But not when you contend the fires of God 
Are my one fear,—for there is one fear more.
Therefore I go. Gawaine, I wish you well.” 

“Well-wishing in a way is well enough; 
So, in a way, is caution; so, in a way, 
Are leeches, neatherds, and astrologers. 
Lancelot, listen. Sit you down and listen:
You talk of swords and fears and banishment. 
Two swords, you say; Modred and Agravaine, 
You mean. Had you meant Gaheris and Gareth, 
Or willed an evil on them, I should welcome 
And hasten your farewell. But Agravaine
Hears little what I say; his ears are Modred’s. 
The King is Modred’s father, and the Queen 
A prepossession of Modred’s lunacy. 
So much for my two brothers whom you fear, 
Not fearing for yourself. I say to you,
Fear not for anything—and so be wise 
And amiable again as heretofore; 
Let Modred have his humor, and Agravaine 
His tongue. The two of them have done their worst, 
And having done their worst, what have they done?
A whisper now and then, a chirrup or so 
In corners,—and what else? Ask what, and answer.” 

Still with a frown that had no faith in it, 
Lancelot, pitying Gawaine’s lost endeavour 
To make an evil jest of evidence,
Sat fronting him with a remote forbearance— 
Whether for Gawaine blind or Gawaine false, 
Or both, or neither, he could not say yet, 
If ever; and to himself he said no more 
Than he said now aloud: “What else, Gawaine?
What else, am I to say? Then ruin, I say; 
Destruction, dissolution, desolation, 
I say,—should I compound with jeopardy now. 
For there are more than whispers here, Gawaine: 
The way that we have gone so long together
Has underneath our feet, without our will, 
Become a twofold faring. Yours, I trust, 
May lead you always on, as it has led you, 
To praise and to much joy. Mine, I believe, 
Leads off to battles that are not yet fought,
And to the Light that once had blinded me. 
When I came back from seeing what I saw, 
I saw no place for me in Camelot. 
There is no place for me in Camelot. 
There is no place for me save where the Light
May lead me; and to that place I shall go. 
Meanwhile I lay upon your soul no load 
Of counsel or of empty admonition; 
Only I ask of you, should strife arise 
In Camelot, to remember, if you may,
That you’ve an ardor that outruns your reason, 
Also a glamour that outshines your guile; 
And you are a strange hater. I know that; 
And I’m in fortune that you hate not me. 
Yet while we have our sins to dream about,
Time has done worse for time than in our making; 
Albeit there may be sundry falterings 
And falls against us in the Book of Man.” 

“Praise Adam, you are mellowing at last! 
I’ve always liked this world, and would so still;
And if it is your new Light leads you on 
To such an admirable gait, for God’s sake, 
Follow it, follow it, follow it, Lancelot; 
Follow it as you never followed glory. 
Once I believed that I was on the way
That you call yours, but I came home again 
To Camelot—and Camelot was right, 
For the world knows its own that knows not you; 
You are a thing too vaporous to be sharing 
The carnal feast of life. You mow down men
Like elder-stems, and you leave women sighing 
For one more sight of you; but they do wrong. 
You are a man of mist, and have no shadow. 
God save you, Lancelot. If I laugh at you, 
I laugh in envy and in admiration.”

The joyless evanescence of a smile, 
Discovered on the face of Lancelot 
By Gawaine’s unrelenting vigilance, 
Wavered, and with a sullen change went out; 
And then there was the music of a woman
Laughing behind them, and a woman spoke: 
“Gawaine, you said ‘God save you, Lancelot.’ 
Why should He save him any more to-day 
Than on another day? What has he done, 
Gawaine, that God should save him?” Guinevere,
With many questions in her dark blue eyes 
And one gay jewel in her golden hair, 
Had come upon the two of them unseen, 
Till now she was a russet apparition 
At which the two arose—one with a dash
Of easy leisure in his courtliness, 
One with a stately calm that might have pleased 
The Queen of a strange land indifferently. 
The firm incisive languor of her speech, 
Heard once, was heard through battles: “Lancelot,
What have you done to-day that God should save you? 
What has he done, Gawaine, that God should save him? 
I grieve that you two pinks of chivalry 
Should be so near me in my desolation, 
And I, poor soul alone, know nothing of it.
What has he done, Gawaine?” 

With all her poise, 
To Gawaine’s undeceived urbanity 
She was less queen than woman for the nonce, 
And in her eyes there was a flickering
Of a still fear that would not be veiled wholly 
With any mask of mannered nonchalance. 
“What has he done? Madam, attend your nephew; 
And learn from him, in your incertitude, 
That this inordinate man Lancelot,
This engine of renown, this hewer down daily 
Of potent men by scores in our late warfare, 
Has now inside his head a foreign fever 
That urges him away to the last edge 
Of everything, there to efface himself
In ecstasy, and so be done with us. 
Hereafter, peradventure certain birds 
Will perch in meditation on his bones, 
Quite as if they were some poor sailor’s bones, 
Or felon’s jettisoned, or fisherman’s,
Or fowler’s bones, or Mark of Cornwall’s bones. 
In fine, this flower of men that was our comrade 
Shall be for us no more, from this day on, 
Than a much remembered Frenchman far away. 
Magnanimously I leave you now to prize
Your final sight of him; and leaving you, 
I leave the sun to shine for him alone, 
Whiles I grope on to gloom. Madam, farewell; 
And you, contrarious Lancelot, farewell.”


Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Non-Stop

 It seemed as if the enormous journey 
was finally approaching its conclusion.
From the window of the train
the last trees were dissipating,
a child-like sailor waved once,
a seal-like dog barked and died.
The conductor entered the lavatory 
and was not seen again, although 
his harmonica-playing was appreciated. 
He was not without talent, some said.
A botanist with whom I had become acquainted
actually suggested we form a group or something.
I was looking for a familiar signpost
in his face, or a landmark that would
indicate the true colors of his tribe.
But, alas, there was not a glass of water 
anywhere or even the remains of a trail. 
I got a bewildered expression of my own 
and slinked to the back of the car 
where a nun started to tickle me. 
She confided to me that it was her
cowboy pride that got her through . . .
Through what? I thought, but drew my hand
close to my imaginary vest.
"That's a beautiful vest," she said,
as I began crawling down the aisle.
At last, I pressed my face against 
the window: A little fog was licking
its chop, as was the stationmaster 
licking something. We didn't stop.
We didn't appear to be arriving,
and yet we were almost out of landscape.
No creeks or rivers. Nothing
even remotely reminding one of a mound.
O mound! Thou ain't around no more.
A heap of abstract geometrical symbols,
that's what it's coming to, I thought.
A nothing you could sink your teeth into.
"Relief's on the way," a little
know-nothing boy said to me.
"Imagine my surprise," I said
and reached out to muss his hair.
But he had no hair and it felt unlucky
touching his skull like that.
"Forget what I said," he said.
"What did you say?" I asked
in automatic compliance.
And then it got very dark and quiet.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of an emu I once loved.
Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

November 1968

 Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Bohemia

 Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!
Written by Philip Larkin | Create an image from this poem

Ignorance

 Strange to know nothing, never to be sure
Of what is true or right or real,
But forced to qualify or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so:
Someone must know.

Strange to be ignorant of the way things work:
Their skill at finding what they need,
Their sense of shape, and punctual spread of seed,
And willingness to change;
Yes, it is strange,

Even to wear such knowledge - for our flesh
Surrounds us with its own decisions -
And yet spend all our life on imprecisions,
That when we start to die
Have no idea why.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Non-Stop

 It seemed as if the enormous journey 
was finally approaching its conclusion.
From the window of the train
the last trees were dissipating,
a child-like sailor waved once,
a seal-like dog barked and died.
The conductor entered the lavatory 
and was not seen again, although 
his harmonica-playing was appreciated. 
He was not without talent, some said.
A botanist with whom I had become acquainted
actually suggested we form a group or something.
I was looking for a familiar signpost
in his face, or a landmark that would
indicate the true colors of his tribe.
But, alas, there was not a glass of water 
anywhere or even the remains of a trail. 
I got a bewildered expression of my own 
and slinked to the back of the car 
where a nun started to tickle me. 
She confided to me that it was her
cowboy pride that got her through . . .
Through what? I thought, but drew my hand
close to my imaginary vest.
"That's a beautiful vest," she said,
as I began crawling down the aisle.
At last, I pressed my face against 
the window: A little fog was licking
its chop, as was the stationmaster 
licking something. We didn't stop.
We didn't appear to be arriving,
and yet we were almost out of landscape.
No creeks or rivers. Nothing
even remotely reminding one of a mound.
O mound! Thou ain't around no more.
A heap of abstract geometrical symbols,
that's what it's coming to, I thought.
A nothing you could sink your teeth into.
"Relief's on the way," a little
know-nothing boy said to me.
"Imagine my surprise," I said
and reached out to muss his hair.
But he had no hair and it felt unlucky
touching his skull like that.
"Forget what I said," he said.
"What did you say?" I asked
in automatic compliance.
And then it got very dark and quiet.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of an emu I once loved.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry