Burt Kimmelman
The poet, Burt Kimmelman, sent me an email a few weeks ago with a poem about reading a few of my little photo-poem pamphlets. I liked it and so I'm posting it here... Thanks Burt.
Reading Barbara Henning's Poems
I think of the possibilities, the
worlds we move through, of what can happen in
the heat of a summer day or the chill
of an autumn night whose bare stars cover
the hills outside Santa Fe, or a street,
emptied of people and even moving
cars in Manhattan's East Village, music
intruding from an open window. The
next day people everywhere talk past each
other. We all borrow someone's precious
words for awhile and then we make them
our own, and then we turn them around in
poems, not what we expect. They are a
toilet overflowing in Delhi. They
are flowers pushing up out of the soil
in Aunay. And they are a woman in
Detroit who "carefully winds her daughter's
hair into little curls." Everywhere, in
the daylight, people go through their routines -
as if we can live out our lives without
poems - but at night they haunt us, we who
dream when awake, we who dream when asleep,
they having come from the desert beyond
the city to settle in for some time.
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