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a year of astronomy
The cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the cosmos stir us – there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, or falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of…
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poem about ten to midnight 2016
a poem i wrote on this night last year. i wanted to write a poem about 2016 for awhile, but then nothing came. i waited, watched deathly hollows two, felt the weight of severus’ death this year and all the others and the coming one so and too soon, then took myself to twitter to…
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a russian train, and peter the great
Around Moscow, the country rolls gently up from the rivers winding in silvery loops across the pleasant landscape. Small lakes and patches of woods are sprinkled among the meadowlands. Here and there, a village appears, topped by the onion dome of its church. –Peter the Great: His Life and World, Robert K. Massie midafternoon, and…
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poem on UFOs over galisteo
it’s the instants. melting butter in a pan a swirl of soy sauce stirring chopsticks – that lift grief to my throat. i was fine just now, but then once more, i’ll tell a stranger how we saw UFOs that night darting like summer flies over the Ortizes. another Dos Equis desert vespers thick…
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poem from a hurricane
november and our star sinking pink along the edges of an island. east of the desert this tumbledown town minds my heart. i will live out some existence looking for sunsets that glow corners where you dallied in record stores digging for comics. you’re a nocturn trying to poach day without light. we wandered a…
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poem about the perseids
supposed to be writing about stargazing. instead, a poem, written a time ago, on the same subject. a shiver and wait, neck craned, for a spark of some comet’s con trail to blaze far-offly through an upward gaze. pour another drop of wine brain firing on syntax backwards like everything to do with us. the…
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poem from the train to bukhara
dusty, dry, golden the fan mountains silhouette a line of white chevys, blue soviet trucks a level crossing then dushanbe, and afghanistan after. vestiges of trade routes that criss-crossed this land like vines creeping up trellises, along shanty warehouses, next to a dwindling river carving a ribbon of jade through the desert. in some other universe there is a caravan packing…
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music, now and then
1996. i am in my bedroom. fifteen years old, and i have lit a gardenia-scented candle. loose-leaf notebook paper, some of it scrawled on in my semi-illegible handwriting, is spread out on the floor. i’m curled cross-legged on the floor too, a black epiphone everly brothers acoustic guitar resting over one thigh. it was a…
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Megan Eaves-Egenes 