Wind
September 23, 1989:
I can still feel it. The wind last night
sucked the breath out of me, flung it screaming
over the live oak and limbless pine.
Then the water swelling, some deep voice
sliding up to us, a dark face, its white woolen beard
spilling over us, straining the ballast
that kept our house rooted like a stiff barnacle
to some tether in the sand
My ears still roar like a seashell.
The ominous calm coming next. That calm
without even the random rustle of life,
birds appearing, silent in the dead air.
When the eye came, I walked outside.
There was a hole straight up
through all that darkness, like a tunnel,
starlight like pinhole punctures in a black screen.
I could barely see the pines, stunted, still straight,
but snapped off midway up, all clipped
the same height, bodiless legs
left planted in clay boots. I could see
cuts opened up in hardwoods, limbs broken
from live oaks, shrubs uprooted, scattered, terrifying.
It came back worse than before,
blowing oppositely, humming its tune
differently over the stringed forest. Inside,
when I could fall sleep I dreamed my ankle
braceletted by a whirl of rope leaping overboard
after an anchor, dragging me after it,
dreams of fish flying, their silver pancaked scales
covering my eyes, cutting into me like razors.
Then, this morning. Coming out
seeing sailboats piled like cordwood,
battered and strewn over the marsh,
masts stepped vertically yesterday
laying over now, angled north
as if they were still carrying sail,
reduced to sundials marking shadows in the morning sun,
birds blown north, vagrants, wounded, dazed,
Shells everywhere, freshly gutted open,
still slick with gristle or beaten white
and smooth, broken on some rock,
then carried inland, a whelk settled in a cowshed,
a purplish clam in a seaside garden
where chrysanthemums should be in bloom,
with my neighbors empty house half lifted
from its foundation and nesting in spartina grass,
on an ordinary autumn day
with bright sunshine, mild sea breezes, soft breakers.
— H.R. Spencer, from The Color After Green (in reference to Hurricane Hugo)
If you’re interested in potentially hearing these poems out loud and in hearing more from these poets, both readings occur in the coming days in Charleston. Black opens the Sundown Series tomorrow, June 1st, and Spencer reads Thursday, June 3rd. Both events begin at 6:30pm.
Spencer’s collection can be purchased at larger retailers or directly from the publishing house, Finishing Line Press: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-color-after-green-by-h-r-spencer/
Black’s books can also be purchased at larger retailers or the publishing house, Muddy Ford Press: https://www.amazon.com/Man-Two-Shadows-Al-Black/dp/1942081162
-Christina Xan