No. 8. (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Hippopotami
By Hannah Six

Turn away from the amethyst afternoon sky.
Turn away, turn away, and don't raise your eyes!
My children, your father is gone now, for good,
And we're all alone in this strange neighborhood.
What happened, you ask? Well, you'll hear by and by...
He was eaten by African hippopotami.

Your daddy went swimming, unaware of his fate...
Like black clouds in the river, those beasts lay in wait.
One moment he was there, and then without a sound,
He was gone! A strong swimmer, he'd never have drowned...
So, they dredged through the muck, 'til one man, with a cry,
Held aloft daddy's hat, chewed by hippopotami.

Thank Auntie for the nice green-bean casserole,
And be careful, dear, that you don't drop her red bowl.
Seal it up with that precious, pricey tin foil,
And then fill the kettle--let me know when it boils.
Now, leave us to talk, dear, your Auntie and I,
About money, and daddy, and hippopotami.

No, Mrs. Jones, there won't be a casket.
The pieces they found wouldn't fill a small basket.
Why, yes, little Amy, there will be a grave,
Where we can go visit the parts they could save
From the sluggish brown water flowing tranquilly by
Where my beloved was eaten by hippopotami.

Thank you, Reverend, the service couldn't have been sweeter.
Now, here comes my poor mother; I'd like you to meet her.
The cakes and the punch will be served now, at home,
By some church ladies who think I shouldn't be alone.
But I'm not! My dear children are there by my side,
When I wake screaming, from nightmares of hippopotami.

Sweet dreams now, my dear hearts, your prayers are all said;
You were kind to remember your poor father, who's dead.
Kiss Mama good night, little golden-haired boy.
And my girl, let me help you to tuck in your toys--
Your favorite animals, soft and blue as the sky,
Birthday gifts from your daddy: three hippopotami.

No. 8. (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 7 (NaPoWriMo)

Untitled
By Hannah Six

Around me, and for miles, trees,
Clutching, dark and prickly
Pressing in on every side, standing so
Close at every turn
I haven't seen a sunset
Burn the western sky for years.
Meanwhile, the rain, the clouds,
Pressing down upon my head,
A dreary crown, declaring me
A woman far from home;
A crown I wear haphazardly,
Askew, it still announces me:
This woman, here, so far from home,
This woman is standing,
still,
alone,
Fenced in by miles of black-green trees
And ten-thousand foot high
walls of stone.

No. 7 (NaPoWriMo)

No. 6 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Morning Commute, Philadephia 1989

By Hannah Six

I.

In those days, the El was neither

air conditioned, nor carpeted. And

the windows opened, so that, on a

white-hot august morning, the wind,

smelling of electric fires and

third rails and decades of oily, black grime

would (someone must have thought) refresh

the riders. Certainly, being buffeted by

a breath-sucking, subway-car gasp

was marginally better than death by convection.

Which is precisely what would have happened,

as you swayed and dozed

to the heaving lullaby

of rattles and bangs

in those boxy old cars,

had they lacked their thoughtful, fetid airflow.

II.

Upon arrival, dazed and bleary,  

at 8th Street station,

when you tumbled from

that stinking, old, silver centipede of a train—

your slick soles peeling, step by step,

from the gummy ceramic tiles,

the lights dimmed  

as though for six o’clock Mass or 

a rose-scented, romantic dinner, 

replete with crisp white linens and flatware 

polished to a mirror shine—

you were (daily) astonished by 

a dank, reviving breeze,

thin, pale air circulating in perpetuity

through the system’s tubercular tunnels.

III.

The current, despite its eye-stinging grit, 

felt good—though it shamed you 

to admit it, even to yourself.

Charging forth from maws as black as pitch,

that fetid torrent was accompanied  

on its lonely wanderings

by blue-white flashes

illuminating mysterious debris

(What mother was it, whose baby’s dirty diapers always

could be picked out in the distance, deep inside the tunnels?)

and 

standing puddles

of antediluvian water.

IV.

Onward you tramped, pushed

and pulled by neighbors whose sweat

intermingled with yours

just moments before. Now, anonymous,

individuals no more,

you moved, instead, as

one immense amoebic being,

hurtling stupidly toward

the jaws—

crushing, grinding, revolving and, finally,

spitting you forth,

blinking,

into another day.

 

No. 6 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 5 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Force of Good

By Hannah Six

raindrop

plops into 

the pond, causes 

tiny ripples that swell and 

break against the shore in gentle waves

No. 5 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 4 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Near Seattle, July 2nd
By Hannah Six

"The last warm day," she said,
"was in May or early June..."
No outrage, no high dudgeon.
Just a sigh, a downtrodden glance
at the darkening windows,
the slate sky's lowered brow mirrored in
the slate sky in the trembling water
so shamelessly flaunted
by the patio chairs'
depressed cushions.

No. 4 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 3. (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Safeway, parking lot, 5:25 p.m.

By Hannah Six

An achingly cold January evening--

frigid, though, thankfully,

no ice on the potholed gravel pavement.

The slice and tang of ice in my nose

snaps, like whiplash,

forcing my attention

through a

narrowing

scope

to that moment when I--

groceries stowed, hatchback firmly latched closed--

pause.

A summer-lover by nature, I have,

with some effort (born of a certain brand of seasonal desperation)

trained my eye to forage

for random, tender bits of beauty

among the long, barren, leafless eastern winters...

So that now, glancing up, I am taken

by the way those stark Maple branches, silhouetted in black against

the remnants of sunset,

criss-cross the horizon,

clipping the bruised sky into gradient ribbons 

of magenta, of rose, of clementine,

and (yes) lime green,

through ever-deepening hues of 

velvety Prussian and sapphire blue.

My fingers curl against the

pleasantly scratchy wool mitts I knitted last April.

Venus teases and blinks.

I smile, and hunch my shoulders 

against an onslaught of shivers.

Then, with a premonition of distant nostalgia,

I tuck this moment away for safekeeping,

and turn toward home.

No. 3. (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 2 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Chickadees, Starlings, and Jays

By Hannah Six

Outside the house

in which I do not live,

a sycamore is budding, branches festooned

with tight, furled leaves and

chickadees, starlings, and jays.

Fertile, rich-brown, the fields

are plowed and moist,

while, in the distance, a faint lime haze

gently slides winter's drab cloak

from the hills' broad shoulders.

Outside the house

in which I do not live,

an ocher-breasted warbler, small as my thumb, trills,
announcing his return and
the grand opening

of a brand new nest

in the same old spot--

where, yearly, the black snake

invades and eats the eggs--

under the eaves of the porch,

where I spent many a fine day spinning;

for company, a glass of tea

so cold it would leave

a dark, spreading circle

on the ground.

Soon, the cool morning mist,

summoned by, and succumbing to, sunrise,

will hover, protectively,

over the creek-carved valleys.

The afternoons will shimmer with heat and insect songs

and swirls of dust, the rumbling of thunder

mumbling to itself beyond the western ridge.

And a million fireflies,

like fairy-lights, strung among the apple trees,

will flash, in three-quarter time,

in the twilight, the blue hour,

outside the house

in which I do not live.

No. 2 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

No. 1 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Untitled

Coarse surface, cloaked in

Glaze of crystalline water,

Embraces each hue.

No. 1 (NaPoWriMo 2013)