bridging

it has been too long
since i have known the night,
all sun-sunk colors the flippant hawk feather
you found on the trail
and placed in your hat-band,
and all of you an angle out of grass now
like an aim for a graceful neck,
_____our compass needle bouncing
_____on magnet's north-spurred bronco.

i step out of the grocery store
bottle returns rattling
like captured wish-granters,
and their ancestral soda machines
fumbling thirty-five cent cola knock-offs.
_____the night is warm, avuncular
and full of bridges:
the crevasse rope bridges
of pavement heat, or the eagle scout
footbridge over a bedtime's creek prone
to stoniness, having been upbraided often,
the magnificent
mustard-fogged bay bridge
which is the after-awe of seeing one's first
meteor, comet, astral ingot
_____still glowing with aisles
on stepping out of the grocery store.

this is the dusk i always survived—
i could cross into at least one heart,
at least yours,
cantilever over the last of the light
into a part of the level, plumb evening
where the stars unhood themselves one by one
like a learning of your habits, particularities,
your preference of roma tomatoes
over beefsteak, of Adam's over Jif,
to fall asleep
_____in my unbearable warmth.

all night,
the hawks go leaving feathers.
until you could almost levitate
with how many are in your hat-band.
i place the groceries on the table
find you in the back yard
seeking for the bearing between lilac and sumac
for the path between houses
for the night you could never quiet
or know for its stupefying suspensions.

Kylan,

It's been a while since I've read your poetry. And man, do I miss it.

To be completely honest, I don't know how to critique this. Your poetry has always been top notch, and this one was no different. When I read your poetry, especially this poem, I feel like I'm in Wyoming, in a small town with dirt roads and weeds and nights full of stars. It's this dramatic western sense that overcomes me whenever I read something like that.

I love your word choice. Out of anything, I think word choice is your strongest element in this poem. I don't see a single weak verb in this entire poem.

i step out of the grocery
storebottle returns rattling
like captured wish-granters,
and their ancestral soda machines
fumbling thirty-five cent cola knock-offs.

I loved these lines. They are so great and well-written.

I wish I knew how to critique something of this quality, but I cannot. You're doing such a fantastic thing with writing, Kylan. You've created your own style and it clearly shows.

-Jared

Oh my gosh... I've yet to read any of your poetry to my knowledge, and this was really beautiful. Like the first reviewer, this puts you right in the scene, lets you feel the dry heat, the feathers, all of it. You set a spectacular setting for the reader. I love your writing style. You didn't capitalize anything, but I think that just makes it that much more... raw. You took out all the fluff and the small things and left us with the rawness of whats happening. Very beautifully written. A well done =]

Image in theory, the sense of, the story-like setting present in pure poetry, a slow paced stacatto introduction: sun-sunk, flippant feather story, like an aim, north spurred bronco

history, home-turf, routines gone mildew green, the familiar fact of the grind, necisary reality - facts more so than imagery, pure story-telling, the city-like epic of halogen and concrete, relevant short cuts, suggestion-like clues that seemingly only a local would truly understand well enough to map in relative actuality, footpath formalities : ancestral soda machines, warm uncle-like bridge? bed-time's creek, still glowing with aisles
on stepping out of the grocery store.


THE CLARITY:
this is the dusk i always survived—
i could cross into at least one heart,
at least yours,
cantilever over the last of the light
into a part of the level, plumb evening
where the stars unhood themselves one by one
like a learning of your habits, particularities,
your preference of roma tomatoes
over beefsteak, of Adam's over Jif,
to fall asleep
_____in my unbearable warmth.

:graceful leveling of the point, narrow scope but clear image, a break in brevity, overlapping of face fiction, where memory resides, point of punctuality, the matriarchal standing (holds the piece together out of sheer necessity)
Its the owning point. and you own it. =)


probably just me here but I see Wendy flying home from never ever land back to earth, Great Britain, England, neighborhood seen aerodynamically, the familiar street like palm in hand but a hand seen like for the first time, home...fear of being a stranger, the ivy laced brick wall, the window, looking in, TO PAUSE after it all....
the hawks go leaving feathers.
until you could almost levitate
with how many are in your hat-band. <3

for the path between houses
TO PAUSE. TO PAUSE. TO PAUSE.
before familiar threshold

Bravo. Safe journey,
I wouldn't want to be lost in your mind with out a guide.