[stylist] Poem - "In Case of Falling Astronauts"

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

Bill,

As always, I like your imagery. An interesting look at the universe and
human's place in it.

As I've said before, I don't think poetry can always be broken down word
by word; in fact, poetry is supposed to be taken apart by images and
metaphors, so I think some on the list are trying to analyze without
looking at the whole picture. The images here are intended to contrast
to paint a vivid picture, I assume, and to deconstruct word by word
doesn't give a clear definition of the poem. Poetry like this is not
meant to read like prose or look like it. Its driving force is vivid
imagery along with unique metaphors. Bill really knows how to apply
diction to his work. So we need to stand back and take in the whole
picture instead of trying to analyze each word and how each word
connects to the next. Not everyone will feel something and have a clear
response, but I don't think we can try to make sense of it merely by
seeking out individual words.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of William L
Houts
Sent: Tuesday, March 18, 2014 4:17 PM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: [stylist] Poem - "In Case of Falling Astronauts"


Hey Peeps,

Here's a longer poem I wrote some time ago.  It's a bit of a warhorse, 
from the days when poetry slams were still the fashion.  I think it 
still might have legs.


--Bill


---


In Case of Falling Astronauts, Break Glass

I.

o heavenly desert for a wandering tribe, nazareth to astronauts;

cradle of prophets with mirrored faces, our mystics of absolute zero,

striding through hells of kelvin heat or leaping lead-footed for joy.

we knew no domes of glass nor wise antennaed

mayors would meet our traveling boys, flown so far

from the roiling blue, flung so far into darkness and dust.

but if a desert, still a place of birth, you anvil moon:like silver

minted fresh, we'd shine our lives by the pure silent hammers of sol.

this was our dream, our all-american dream of astronauts

grave and poetic:faces full of infinity, minds on plans

for compassionate cities, angelic hands at work in the vine-

yards of science.the rocket packs and rayguns were toys,

dolls in the hands of scheming boys we never thought they'd keep.

what we were after, as always, was space:another place to go

when nowhere was left

a heavenly desert to a wandering tribe,

second bethlehem to a dream.

II.

I wonder what plagues we gave to the Indians of the Moon,

I struggle to remember which treaties we broke with the LunarSioux,

the precise year of that famous ambush sprung by

the cavalry of the American Third Orbital Marines upon the Lakota

living by the shores of the Sea of Tranquility.

And I forget exactly how many chiefs we lashed to the coils

of fusion drives, or swung from rocket gantries

or tumbled into void with a one two three.

I get all the dates mixed up, but from where I'm standing

I can still smell tipis burning on lunar prairies.

III.

When I still played hopscotch,

when i knew just how to throw the stone

and what these lines are for,

I read about Laika, the dog in space,

How the Russians loved their doggy cosmonaut

(a snapshot from some grade school primer:

white coated men and a scrappy mutt

with a lolling tongue) and how she loved her cozy Sputnik, just enough 
room for her race.

I imagined the husky steering her tiny craft:

Adroit Captain Laika, the dog between worlds,

equal parts Egyptian goddess and loyal pet;

the constellation, drawn in the sky with

stars of chalk, the constellation given life,

the Hunter's Dog unleashed to gambol and howl

fully enfleshed in the backyards of night.

When I still played hopscotch, and knew

the counting rhymes, and how to get through the game

without hitting the lines, I read about Laika:

but not how her husky fur must have burned

in a blaze when her tiny cage returned to earth,

nor a word for her terrified yawp as the Sputnik

crashed through a ceiling of air, splashed down

in the southernmost part of the Indian Sea.

I know she died before I was born, and how.

But I learned it late, and now I call her:

here girl, come on down now and lick my hand;

and brief me on dreams brought low,

dogs in space,these chalk marks

whose use I used to know.






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