Poetry 180

How Bright It Is

April. And the air dry

As the shoulders of a water buffalo.

Grasshoppers scratch at the dirt,

rub their wings with thin legs

flaring out in front of the soldiers

in low arcing flights, wings a blur.

The soldiers don’t notice anymore,

seeing only the wreckage of the streets,

bodies draped with sheets, and the sun,

how bright it is, how hard and flat and white.

It will take many nails from the coffinmakers

to shut out this light, which reflects off everything:

the calloused feet of the dead, their bony hands, 

their pale foreheads so cold, brilliant in the sun.

-Brian turner 

How Bright It Is, a poem written by U.S Veteran, Brian Turner, uses imagery of light to convey the realities of war and the trauma felt as a veteran. Additionally, Connie Wanek, uses imagery in her poem After Us, as she writes about a terrible rain causing damage to a beautiful place. I chose these two poems because I immediately felt emotionally invested. Both authors are able to captivate their audience with their beautiful words as they write about something so awful. These poems can be inspiring in the classroom as they are filled with emotion and real-life situations. Students can relate to either poem for various different reasons, perhaps inspiring them to write about their own experiences. Both poems also use a variety of figurative language, which would make a great activity to have students write a poem exploring the different types of figurative language.

After Us

Rain is falling through the roof.

And all that prospered under the sun,

the books that opened in the morning

and closed at night, and all day

turned their pages to the light;

the sketches of boats and strong forearms

and clever faces, and of fields

and barns, and of a bowl of eggs,

and lying across the piano

the silver stick of a flute; everything

invented and imagined,

everything whispered and sung,

all silenced by cold rain.

The sky is the color of gravestones.

The rain tastes like salt, and rises

in the streets like a ruinous tide.

We spoke of millions, of billions of years.

We talked and talked.

Then a drop of rain fell

into the sound hole of the guitar, another

onto the unmade bed. And after us,

the rain will cease or it will go on falling,

even upon itself.

-Connie Wanek