There is a moment
You must login to vote
Immediately following the explosion
(the light surges forward)
But before the all-encompassing fury of sound
Can reach the ears, like glowing lava
To sear the inner drum
(the children's eyes widen in recognition)
In that pause this atmoshperic resonance of life
(something like the growth of bones, or leaves expanding)
Can for a brief moment be heard
(perhaps it is not so organic, but more like
the groaning of wordless prayer or
So there are moments in my days
When gliding about in an empty space
And nothing going on
I feel like a ghost haunting an evaporated memory
(this is inbetween the bombardments of your presence)
I knock about in my silly white sheet
With holes for eyes
Vaccuous on the inside, empty on the outside
(though there is this background pitch
as of electricity arcing within me)
The air pressure is intolerable, the tension
Like hot fingers pressing against cool glass.
Poet's Notation -- written during the winter of 1999, I was not only experiencing that universal sense of possible impending doom from Y2K (remember that anxiety? how far away it seems, now) but was also going through a very difficult transition in finalizing a divorce, moving, and working 70 hours a week.
I do have a certain morbid fascination regarding explosions as I visited the Atomic Holocaust Museum in Hiroshima when I was five years old. My most vived memory of that experience is the image of a stone wall on which the shadows of three schoolchildren had been etched. Those schoolchildren had been standing within the most inner epicenter of the blast, and the outline of their shadows -- implanted by the intense force of the atomic shock wave -- were all that subsequently remained of them.
It would be fair to say that I, too, felt like little more than an outline of my former self.
"All the darkness in the world
cannot put out the light
of one candle"