| Two Poems by David Jordan
A Good Poem One of these days I am going to write a good poem. It won't be about unfaithful women or unrequited love. It won't maunder on about wet Oregon weather. It will avoid anger. Baseball, movies and jokes will be locked away in the Trivia box. Childhood, happy or unhappy, will be edited out. This poem won't dwell on jealousy, on resentment or remorse. Divorce will be cast aside, along with easy scenery. People who dislike me or I dislike will not be dissected. Lamenting about aging will be verboten. This poem will tell how much I loved my daughter, dead at seventeen, and how much I loved my grandmother, dead at ninety-two. But it will deal in affection and hope, not grief. It will shine light on pleasant memories, use bright reflections of yesterday to illuminate tomorrow. A line of anguish may be allowed in now and then, to provide variety, but happiness will anchor every stanza. This poem will not camp in its own backyard, build a cardboard fort to pretend adventure. This poem will travel to Spain, to Hawaii, to England. This poem will walk the world. You agree, don't you I've collected enough ideas for a really good poem? Now I need to find a few good words. Champagne on Strawberries Walking Harvard Square in cold, bright October light, I find myself trailing a tall woman in a dress of blinding red. Blonde hair pours on shimmering shoulders like champagne on strawberries. She is angular, high-hipped, maybe a Vogue model come to Boston for a shoot, out to see how the crimson live, all dolled up in a dress to suit the occasion. Her black, patent-leather pumps glisten as she swivel-steps precisely along the gritty sidewalk. A traffic light stops her and she cocks her weight on one slim leg, sweeps her hair aside, gazes into a jewelry store window. In profile, I see she has an Adam's apple the size of my fist, a wispy goatee, a hard squint like a spaghetti-western gunslinger on a sunny day. So much for champagne on strawberries. David Jordan |