"Thus old Orion does his somersault across the heavens..."
We are in the middle of a brutal string of sub-zero temperatures days this year here in McHenry County. All of that following the biggest snowstorm in four or five years. My garbage bins are full and frozen in piles of snow along the street with no pickup for three days.
More than 20 years ago on an even colder night I was taking the garbage and recycling out in the wee small hours of the morning to the curb for pick up. It was one of those crystal nights. I looked up.
Suddenly the Stars
Suddenly the stars
unseen since god knows when—
explode against the Arctic night.
No blank shelf of stratus bars them,
no haze or mist obscures them,
no scudding cirrus race the wind to hide them.
The fierce orange glow of pollution
cannot obscure them.
Thus old Orion does his somersault
across the heavens,
ursine dippers pivot, reel
upon bright Polaris’s steady blaze,
forgotten constellations process
with timeless dignity,
long –lost Milky Way splatters half across the sky.
Once folk knew these stars,
measured life blood by their glow,
fixed on them for certainly against death and chaos,
steered by their light where no marking showed he way,
found their gods among them,
and sacrificed to them in sacred duty.
But years have passed,
these stars unseen, unrecognized,
nor even missed
amid a world of roofs, electric lights,
other things to do, other lives to lead—
until this night,
when they come a calling
and change everything.
—Patrick Murfin
This poem appeared in a slightly different form in We Build Temples in the Heart published in 2004 by Skinner House Books of Boston. Autographed copies are available upon request for $8 including postage. Post a request in the comments or E-mail pmurfin@sbcglobal.net with your request and a mail address.
***
Years later I woke up in a near panic over this.
Process, you ask. How do you create a poem? Here’s one way. Pathetic when you think about it.
The Poet’s Nightmare
I wake up in a drenching sweat
distraught
for want of a word
for a douche bag.
No, not some low life idiot—
the thing
that hung once
in the bathroom
that smelled of lavender
where stockings dripped
from the shower rod
and steam misted
the pink flamingo decals
on the mirror.
I need the word that will not come
with consuming urgency.
It has a place in a line of verse
spelling itself out
in hand carved wooden
Gothic type blocks
on old linen paper.
A hundred times it seems
that it is almost there
ready to fall into
its urgent place.
And vanishes.
—Patrick Murfin
January 22, 2015
3:43 am
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