David Kitchel – Three Poems

David Kitchel’s poems have appeared in New Millennium Writings, The Chattahoochee Review, and Calamaro. He freely admits to once reciting Leigh Hunt in an Irish pub to gain the attention of an attractive redhead. David lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife, that redhead, and their two sons.

Down with my Brother

At the end of Beach Road
Black-headed gulls bank
And glide on the wind, in
Off the sea. Boats rise and fall.

Past tourists and cars,
Beyond pavement and sea-wall,
Over rocks and sea-weed,
I abandoned shoes and pressed
Pale toes into sand.

A bereft but glib observer
As the sinking sun shines
The mundane into gold:
A bit of foam, a feather,
Some unraveled rope,
With seaweed and snails
In tidal pools—

And one small rock,
With crossed red veins,
Which I took and put in my pocket
To place on James Wright’s grave.

The Crane

Last week they formed
The anchors, and poured
The concrete footing.

Before that,
A solid month of digging
And hauling away
Huge gray-white rubble made
From the previous structure
And the bedrock it was built upon.

This morning, out of the three-story
Hole and the shimmery-gold sunrise
Reflected in large rectangular puddles,
A red skeleton went up,
A section every hour.

And now this afternoon,
I’m back, working it all out,
What’s been created out of the ordinary,
Out of the earth, and the genius
Of our sometimes uncaring kind,
Out of our hard labor.

A man in the cab has opened a door
And stepped out on to something—
Part ladder, part bridge—
He looks around

And with what appears, from this distance,
As conviviality, waves.

Together in this strange world,
Some of us rock on the earth,
Some of us walk spritely
In the brightening,
Blue sky.

After Hearing Carolan in a Restaurant

Odds are good
Not many in Tennessee
Recognize this tune.
A harpist somewhere
Knew it well enough
To keep the melody alive.

After all those years of blindness,
It’s no wonder you’d gone
To St. Patrick’s Purgatory.
Torment and piety alike
Brought many to that island cave.
Even your lost Brigid, whose touch
Immediately you recognized
As you helped her board the ferry.

I hope despite the years,
Despite your poor clothes,
She felt how you learned
Her face by heart. Even now,
A stranger traces
Her vanished features
Into sound.





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