Swimming Breaststroke

Shortly after I graduated from college, I tried my hand at writing poems and short stories. I attended workshops, participated in read-and-critique groups, and occasionally did readings. I had a few pieces published in small magazines, and I even got the self-publishing bug. I ran a tiny zine called nerve (not the one that later became famous) for a few years and in 1995 released my own book of poems, Welcome Home. The works contained therein, as well as other poems written “back in the day,” have been available online for a while, but the site is pretty well hidden and I’d like to retire it. Some of these pieces reflect a younger version of me that I can’t quite fathom these days, while others still ring true for me. With that rambling preamble out of the way, I present one such poem.

Swimming Breaststroke

Though I have never been to Spain
I often dream of a place,
an old wooden cottage on a hill
overlooking a grassy valley full of sheep,
where the oranges taste like sunshine.

In the distance, a dog is barking;
someone — a woman — calls out my name.
At first I cannot make it out,
syllables garbled, crawling through water,
slowly growing clearer like a ringing bell –

“Angelo! Angelo!”

A slight breeze catches Whitman’s leaves of grass,
sweeps them into a whispering wave of green.

I stand at the top of the hill,
long black hair dancing across my face,
the rest of me perfectly still, serene,
watching the lambs chew.

The sun is intoxicating; it is my wine.
I am floating.

I am the wind; I kick through shriveled men
that smell of burning ointment,
slice through women and soldiers
who grunt approval at unfamiliar skin.

I am grass, sheep, clouds,
swimming breaststroke over houses and fields;
my hawk wings slap at salty air,
the sound of one hand clapping.

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Not sure the inspiration for this one, although I was journaling my dreams back then, so I’m guessing that some of the imagery comes from one or more dreams I had.

On this day…

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