Philip Kobylarz, Not My First Rodeo, Photograph
Storm Letter
I saw in your letter
you washed your hair
outside with a hose
from a barrel of rain;
here down the block
my clock sits timeless
as day is consumed
by the darkening house.
I have gone outside
where the currents sleep
and the broken trees
guard the silent road;
I have taken my pen
where the light remains:
the light, and the green
that the winds have left.
One day like another
with little sound;
so far no word
of any change.
I wait for buckets, lights,
and the sound of saws;
you flirt with silence,
caress the dark.
I imagine your hair,
tangled and wet,
and my sudden need
piercing your quiet dream.
Here in exile
my hunger grows, heats
to desire, then rages —
then goes.
______________
Phil Kirsch
Review by Sarah Daly
The poem’s first-person narration provides an intimacy with the reader. The rhythm flows so each line is seamless individually, but coherent as a whole. The last line, which is only 2 syllables, provides a stark conclusion to the rather lyrical poem. There is an interesting tension between the narrator and their person of interest. It is one-sided, with imagination and assumption filling in the blank spaces of communication. There is an undercurrent of longing and desire for something nameless. The narrator’s musings reflect a desire to move beyond one’s time and current circumstances. The imagery is striking, alternating between the abstract and concrete. The final line “then goes” is a wistful emergence of reality.
Review by Zeke Sanchez
In the first reading I was not satisfied with the ending of Storm Letter. But when I went back over the poem it became clear that early in the first stanza the writer is already talking about the person he longs for. Overall, the writing is strong, direct, unadorned. I liked the “darkening house” and the “broken trees.” There is a sparseness, an emptiness we can all identify with at some point in our lives, if we live long enough.
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
Distance is a blanket of darkening clouds, the dream between subject and object that envelops and blackens all the things under its reach; our clocks and our compasses are left obscured, we fly blind. Carrying our tools with us, we feel we must carve ourselves a corner of serenity and respite from which to try to set sail closing the gap to a touching distance; that is our glimmer of light and hope. Alas, the images and fantasies we conjure as cardinal references assail us like consecutive tides sent to keep us at bay; a sudden need strikes us like the first lightning; the storm is upon us, a mad desire sent to punish our attempt thunders into a raging seizure. True story.