a poem, finished

So I had been working on this poem for quite a few years, since 2003, the fall before Milo was born. I was pregnant, living in Maine and had just formed this fantastic and vibrant writers group. We kept up through the winter and then a few of us ladies stayed in contact and kept on having writing group until I moved back here to Philly. But that time, while I was gestating, proved very fertile and I planted the seeds for this poem, Prague Flood August 2002.

This spring I was lucky enough to head back to Maine and attended a writers retreat sponsored by the Wife of Bath. It was fantastic and one of those lovely ladies who I wrote with all those years ago, attended the retreat. I workshopped that poem and finally feel like I have finished...I have never struggled with a poem like I have with this one.

The Wife of Bath was having a summer issue about travel and I submitted this poem. Chris even submitted a postcard he cooked up, that if I ask him nice maybe he will let me post here...

but this summer issue is not to be. The Wife has bigger fish to fry and hopefully will be back soon with the literary mag.

So without further hoopla, fanfare and the like, here it is.

Prague Flood, August 2007

3 nights, after the rain

the Vltava has not receeded

flooding its ancient banks

and low lying neighborhoods

houses unloose their bricks

elder trees, set free from the sodden ground

tumble into the river

the flooded Zoo has emancipated its animals,

seals rolling in the current

trying to hide beneath the shadowy walls

of the stone bridges

we creep cautiously

through the dark evacuated old town

roaming alleys

using our hands as guides

on the damp and crumbling walls

once familiar passages

have become blocked by hulking shadows

dark looming figures in our paths

I trip twice and stumble

feeling the wetness of the furniture

tossed out from the depths

of watery cellar graves

in the absence of light

sounds come louder and closer

the sloshing of water

a far off siren wailing

than quiet

the brush of a large body into stone

an elephant's feet crushing wood

a furl,

flute light on the air

than running footsteps

shouts I cannot understand

and my own breath

coming faster

seeking refuge

amongst the dark and steeped city

& in our hast

we are looking for that secret place

where we've heard the fiddle call

it is known for its beer

which miraculously still springs forth

from golden fonts

the smell of smoke and food is growing near

as we stumble & search & hope

& deep within Stare Mesto

lit by candles & propane the door beckons

here the people are among the broken chairs

but the floor is dry

& the music plays

& we have found asylum

for our rain weary souls.