Sunday, July 03, 2005

Flowers Cut Away From The Branch

Seven minutes in the sun
we’ve had,

Seven minutes of this life,
hard and sharp like burning
magnesium dust in the deep
part of a loud evening.

We’ve compressed all these
things so tight, levered so
many moments into our
short span, aging like
flowers cut away from
the branch, beautiful
for a moment but doomed
to wither.

We’ve set fire to all our
glorious cities to watch
the spectacle of them
from further down the
horizon line, standing
in the dust where farm
fields were.

All our celebrations and
laments are consecrated
with explosions and fire,
all our remembered days
lit with wild brightness
for the fear of feeling that
quick age, that broken-gland
decrepitude that comes
on us when we fall quiet,
too exhausted to dance
against the truth of things
any longer.

Seven minutes in the sun
go quick, and no shadowy
eons await us further, for
the garish and burning husk
will not outlast the evening,
this frantic energy spent
without regard and leaving
only blackened places upon
the paving stones.


mattles said...

Poet laureate 2006.

drthunder said...

"too exhausted to dance
against the truth of things
any longer."

Yes, Firehawk. This poem points to many instances within my exprience. Your comments are probing and amazingly sensitive. I could certainly agree with Mattles.

Bill said...

"Seven minutes in the sun
go quick, and no shadowy
eons await us further"

Again, you've touched that universal concern... the brief span that is life as we know it... and the angst that comes when we ponder that, this, may be all there is.

Braleigh said...

Matt, you scabmonger, I already made him Poet Laureate.

Firehawk said...

Thanks, all!


Thanks for commenting. I've seen your stuff on Braleigh's site, and thought I'd mosey over the other day. Also, I suppose you've given me a term extension to next year, since Braleigh named me the poet laureate of her galactic empire a few weeks ago.


I knew you were lurking...


Glad you liked it, man. If I can hit a universal chord, that's all I can hope for.


Scabmonger is an especially neat epithet. I'll remember that one.

Stranger Ken said...

Great poem! It's good to be back. There are some pleasures that even holidays can't provide. Seven minutes, though, four hundred and twenty seconds ... so much time! One moment, ten thousand years. Ten thousand years. one moment.

Stranger Ken said...

Sorry! I was so carried away by my own enthusiasm that I lost control of the language: "Ten thousand years, one moment."

Firehawk said...


Enthusiasm covers many sins, though I'd never worry about small stuff like punctuation in a comment post. Glad to have you back. It was quiet on the grid over the holiday.

swiftboat said...


Great 4th of July Post. Seven minutes in the sun - that's about the length of a New England Summer. At least it seems that way.

Seriously though, this is a beautiful poem. I really liked the tone and direction of it.

Firehawk said...


Thanks. Glad you liked it. I like how it relates to the occasion, but can be viewed more generally. Good to hear from you. Hope you had a good 4th. Any races lately? Seems like kayaking underneath the fireworks in the harbor would be neat.

erin said...

I've been spending a lot of time with these thoughts lately.. They always end with "Please Sir, may I have some more?"

Firehawk said...


I'll post another one tonight. Thanks for coming around, and I hope that my stuff isn't too gloom/doom for your mood.

erin said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

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