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

[William L Houts]

HI Bridgit,

You've really articulated something here which I didn't feel it my place 
to say.  You know how it goes:  you write something, you post it here, 
and you take whatever roses or brickbats which come your way; it's not 
really kosher to bicker with one's critics, LOL.  I'm glad you 
appreciate the poem, to which I gave so much thought and heartsblood.  
Thank you dearly, as I like to say.



--Bill






On 3/19/2014 1:31 PM, Bridgit Pollpeter wrote:
> 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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-- 
"Let's drink a toast now to who we really are."

           --Jane Siberry