NVN Thursday: 3 Extreme Weather Poems
by Richard Schiffman, Melanie Choukas-Bradley, Mary K O'Melveny
HEAT WAVE
by Richard Schiffman
Heat Wave painting by Ralph White
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If sweat were gold, I’ve lost millions. If hell were cold, I’d be in heaven. If heat were meat, I’d feed the world. If hot were smart, this day’s a bloody genius. Robin redbreasts with lolling tongues are begging for the spare change of rain. Today even the fire ants are panting like puppies. The dog days of summer, they whimper, they drool. Pigeons in heat spontaneously combusting, bridges diving like ducks into rivers, green leaves boiling and bubbling from trees, trees hawking their shade to the highest bidder. Still, there is something in me that loves a flame. That burns baby burns complacency’s ghetto. Whose body is grease for its very own pyre. Whose soul is on fire like a summer in Georgia. Some seasons are mild, some seasons are fiery If June kissed the moon, the moon would go loony. If July were a stud, every mare would come screaming. When mid-August simmers, the whole world is soup. Today only mad dogs and Englishmen are strolling. And possibly some poets and wandering monks. Fervid souls, assorted fools. We know who we are. We know what we’re up to.
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Richard Schiffman, based in New York City, is an environmental reporter, poet, and author of two biographies. His poems have appeared on the BBC and on NPR as well as in the Alaska Quarterly, the New Ohio Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The New York Times, Writer’s Almanac, This American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily, and other publications. His first poetry collection What the Dust Doesn't Know was published in 2017 by Salmon Poetry.
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VERMONT FLOODWATER
by Melanie Choukas-Bradley
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Shot on an angle by their dad from behind My great niece and nephew stand in silence on a bridge over the Winooski River Dressed for Taekwondo in red and white Boy with hand on concrete rail, girl in form-ready pose They are frozen in the video, like children in a painting As the wild Winooski race-churns below, disregarding streets Down from the mountains, wild brook to wild river, a New England water rodeo Riding Vermont farm, village and town, with too much water from too much rain Ten days ago their grandmother, my sister, texted a photo of Camel’s Hump Wreathed in Canadian wildfire smoke, yesterday a video of her playful stream in murder mode Tiny Vermont, in the climate crosshairs Hill and hamlet no longer safe retreat During Irene I watched the covered bridge of my childhood Die an animal death on national television, falling wounded in seconds I grew up drinking sap from the bucket And long for the sweetness of Old Vermont
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Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a naturalist and award-winning author of seven nature books, including City of Trees, A Year in Rock Creek Park, Finding Solace at Theodore Roosevelt Islan,d and The Joy of Forest Bathing. She began writing poetry during the pandemic and has had several poems published by Beate Sigriddaughter’s Writing in a Woman’s Voice, including “How to Silence a Woman,” and “If I have loved you,” both of which won “Moon Prizes.” Earlier this year The New Verse News published her poem The Water Cooler following multiple mass shootings. Melanie grew up in Vermont wandering the woods and fields, and her heart aches for her family and friends who are dealing with catastrophic flooding in Vermont.
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SWINGING ON WINGS OF FLAME
by Mary K O’Melveny
There's a house somewhere I know where the fire's burnin'
All night long…
And even though the wind may now be howlin'
The stars are bright and they push me on and on
—“Half Moon Rising” (Yonder Mountain String Band)
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We keep exploring outer space for answers. Out there, we learn that black holes make sounds of music as they swallow everything around them. Celestial destruction to the tune of string band melodies, as if the Osborne Brothers or the Red Clay Ramblers had booked a cosmic venue where eager stars do-si-do around dark matter’s edges. Sit still and you will hear creation’s story spelled out with mandolins, fiddles, five-string banjos. On Earth we are orchestrating our own demise. Everything has turned extreme. Our hottest week just past will not be last. The burning air tastes like barbeque. Put an ear to ground, hear it singe, smolder, sear from simmering smog and haze. Far better to harmonize and tap our feet as Earth’s axis shifts and we wobble, weave like drunken sparrows. Saharan sands might land in Kansas while floodwaters choke New Jersey highways and algal blooms poke out from Florida’s rivers. Grab a good seat at our cosmic amphitheater where smoke rises from the speed of guitar picking. If you listen closely, you can hear some scat, nonce, argot. Go with the flow. Flat Foot Floogie, Tutti Fruiti. Explosions of fervor, fury unleashed by gas ripples in galaxy clusters. Who can say this fate will not be ours as well? One hopes we won’t be around by then. For now, we can dance as glissandos of sound drift from the heart of the Milky Way.
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Mary K O'Melveny is a recently retired labor rights attorney who lives in Washington DC and Woodstock NY. Her work has appeared in various print and on-line journals. Her most recent poetry collection is Dispatches From the Memory Care Museum, just out from Kelsay Books. Her first poetry chapbook A Woman of a Certain Age is available from Finishing Line Press. Mary’s poetry collection Merging Star Hypotheses was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2020.