Weathered, David A. Goodrum

Philip Kobylarz, Estuaria, Photograph





I’m sitting in fog
while sinking into the couch

after the shift from rain
streaking down my face

to drizzle to mist to low-hanging cloud
I struggle within a shrouded view

to sort between
curios to remember     ruins to forget

artifacts left behind
and ones best left undiscovered

what is long done
and what is left undone

decades-old pictures     once full-color
faded to monochrome     puzzles

in misshapen boxes     filled with missing pieces
games never played     books

without cracked spines     movies
in shrink-wrapped cellophane

cards never sent saying I love you
letters never written saying I understand

the squall whose front might lift
my prone body in an updraft

has dissipated     everything tarnished
covered with water dust

David A. Goodrum


Review by Jared Pearce

The movement from memory to regret is quite fun here, if that movement can be fun, and I like especially how the poem circles around at the end back to the weather and, the especially fun paradox of water dust at the end.  I’m not sure if water dust is the same as mud, but if it is, the movement of the poem is, I think, even more wonderful.


Review by Massimo Fantuzzi

Hide distant things: / the things that are drunk with tears! (from G. Pascoli, Fog.) Sunk in a landscape of personal dissonances, the blurry mess of shortcomings, the indefinite catalogue of strenuous, daily failings: constant reminder of them is the paraphernalia on display on our shelves, the memorabilia we fill our burrows with, each one cueing to a missed opportunity, each one a souvenir of a chance we never really had.

This poem tears the veil on an existential truth: far from being of hindrance, the descending fog and shrouded view reveal our artifacts in their exact essence of smudged, ragged, ill-defined, chained ghostly echoes. And to shipwreck in these waters is sweet to me. (from G. Leopardi, The Infinite.)




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