Then there's the poem "Reading," which, of course, I love, and which is also about writing, the reader who gets the writer. It starts out, "Sometimes I read pages of books without retaining anything," which also happens to me--maybe because it's a beautiful breezy day of windchimes and butterflies and a goldfinch, or maybe I'm preoccupied with politics, pandemic, and death. But books are saving me right now, and I'm glad this was one of them.
Only a few people will come to the dive
where you once danced, or turn to the page
where you left some marks, look at the words you wrote.
Fewer still will read them. Then a mixture
of vanity and humility if a stranger understands.
The title Scald comes from "Scalding Cauldron," an abecedarian (plays with the alphabet) prose poem about "Crackpot Crones," among others. "Let's scold and scald. Let's be Skalds--poets who write of heroic deeds. (Her heroes are women!) "The End is Coming" felt awfully close, and also related to Isaac's Storm, about a horrific hurricane, but it's true that some survived! As some of us will survive..., but to go back to the braided poem: "All of us project ourselves onto the perils of Generation Z / and the end of the alphabet..." I did pause, look up, and worry about Generation Z, and ask myself why we had imagined the end of the alphabet for our descendants. And now there's this pandemic, horrific American presidency, derecho, and the inland hurricane that devastated Iowa.
You should see/listen to "Crickets," by Dave Bonta, here.