On Thursday, December 20, 2001, at 09:19 PM, david.bircumshaw wrote:
>> Since none of us has access to
>> real data, why not just drop it and talk about poetry -- something we,
>> presumably, know something about.
>>
>
> Michael
>
> I did post a poem today, one about the psychological effect on the space
> poetry requires of the current climate, and Alison and Peter responded
> in
> ways that could be furthered in discussion, but since then the bombs
> have
> started falling on the list again.
>
> Best
>
> Dave
>
And I just dropped one of them.
I'm not sure yet whether I'm sorry, but I do owe a poem:
The Fall
When we'd pile in my great-aunt's Chevrolet
And drive to see the trees turned red and gold,
Grandma would scowl. "Reminds me of death," she'd say.
"It means that everything is getting old."
"Now, Helen, 'after winter comes the spring.'"
But she'd have none of that. "It came and went
For you and me, Sister." And then she'd sing
"Go, tell Aunt Rhody, " just for devilment.
I have her picture, 19, sure to break
The heart of every man she ever met --
Another from her fifties, in a fake
Nun's habit sucking on a cigarette,
And both are faithful. Grandma, you were right.
There's nothing grows in Fall except the night.
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