Sample Poems by Madeleine Mysko
One must go beyond logic in order
to experience what is large in what is small.
--Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of
December. We take the children to visit
the train garden at the
I say, lifting the youngest high.
See the houses, the roofs
glittering with snow.
See the school, the church, the stores on Main Street,
fair, the ski slope, the circus tent.
See the fire truck, dump truck, flatbed carrying
the boy building a snowman, the mail carrier with
letter in hand, the trained bear
turning in the ring.
See the man with the flag at the crossing,
the trains passing each
other, going over and under-
locomotive and caboose, boxcar, coal car, milk car,
the flickering passenger car with people seated
at all the windows. See them going
around the bend,
over the trestle, across the flat blue stream.
I hold my breath,
from under the papier-mch mountain,
from out of the dark tunnel, the train
that perfect beam of light,
that piercing whistle, old
approaching, going past me and around
Nine p.m., July the
fourth. The roof,
Broadway Garage, Johns Hopkins Hospital.
Our little crowd is pressed
against the rail:
employees, lots of children, and enough
pushing I.V. poles-
that here, among the cars, our measures seem
extreme. A roof
away, the trauma team
lights up the landing pad. A siren wails
thinly from some
forsaken street below.
But we remain intent on waiting for
the dark to deepen,
the weather being fair, that we will know-
any second, every one of
the thrill of the expected come to pass.
Daylight on the monastery walk
after the night of heavy rain,
and I consider the moonflower:
how the big spent blooms resemble
linen tea towels rinsed and wrung out,
three yellowed towels someone meant to
the line to dry.
And I consider the very air:
how yesterday's weather seems back
in memory, but is still out there,
a heft of warmth east of here by now,
continent, rolling over the Atlantic
in enormous thunderheads.
And I consider this
how thin it seems against the washed
morning sky, like an old pearl
that's been chipped, worn smooth, but is still
securely fixed behind sheer clouds
by weather-though the moon, too,
is moved, and is beloved, through
Out of Blue
It wasn't wind or thunder: color
a summer storm. The orange tiger lily,
the yellow black-eyed Susan, the pink
were too much themselves in the charged light.
The trees to the west sharpened
against the sky.
The sky was exaggerated, a purple hue.
I set out
to gather toys from the yard
and towels from the line, but at the hedge was struck
hydrangea blue. I felt it travel,
through me, toward the ground of a day
I couldn't quite
remember, and I was left
bewildered, bereft of I didn't know what.
I had to lean into the broad leaves, to reach
deep, to snap stems until my
were filled with blooms big as baby bonnets.
The broken-green odor blessed the air
as I carried that crucial blue across the lawn,
and the maples blanched at the first gust