This weeks Poem of the Week is 'Migration on a Bad Day' by Devon Brock. Though telling a simple tale, the poem works so well due to the almost 'beat' like quality of the writing alongside a quite delicious lilting rhythm and wonderful restraint. It is one of those pieces where you can tell each word has been agonized over but it all seems so natural and flows as if it dripped straight from the mind to the page. 

 

Below Devon answers our Q&A:

 

What got you into writing poetry?

I started writing poetry while in high school in the late '70's. I had an English teacher that knew I wouldn't do any assignment given, so she told me to write anything I wanted to write and she would grade me on that instead. Being the consummate procrastinator, I churned out poems out of necessity.

 

How long have you been writing?

I began writing poetry in earnest in 1990, as a Poetry/Fiction Writing major at Columbia College in Chicago. I had some stellar professors there that are still publishing great work today - Achy Obejas and Paul Hoover. I invite anyone to check their amazing poetry. After numerous submissions and rejections to a variety of publications and journals, I gave up writing altogether. That was 24 years ago. This last April, while looking at gray snow on the north side of my house, a line popped into my head - "Shadow remains the bones of us" - and I haven't stopped writing since.

 

Do you go to any open-mic nights?

Where I live, there are no poetry open mics. I did perform some while in school, as Achy required us to do so as part of her program. They were fun. A bunch of poetry students getting drunk with the prof.

 

What’s your favourite poet/poem?

My favorite poem? Today it is "mettle (yeah! and me too!)", by Leon Stolgard. That's the thing about now versus then. There is no longer any filter to hush an aspiring voice. There are no longer any judges to discourage the voice. Now, we all get to howl as we will. Now, the lonely silence between the reader and the poet is filled wondrous chatter. Tomorrow, am certain my mind will blown away another great poet, and it will go on and on just like that.

 

You're cast away on a desert island. What's your luxury?

The answer to that question is obvious to me - my wife. I'll write to her in wet sand and have a smooth new page at every low tide.

 

 

Migration on a Bad Day

by Devon Brock

 

Met her in the driveway, blue band-aid

on her thumb because the rush came strong

and razor.

 

I saw the Redstart in the apple blooms,

ticking orange to black: the migration was on

and northing.

 

She had a shit day borne on a twitching

crease of lip, because she couldn't stand the gruel

anymore.

 

He clung to a fist of last autumn's fruit

I was too damned lazy to pick and lapped

a blossom.

 

She said, "the chef's a prick. Gave me thirty-two quarts

of cukes on my prep-list and the first ticket hit before

opening."

 

His mate alights flit olive and flush yellow

on the growing-tip sagging west. The tree was too close

to the shack.

 

"I'm out. I'm done. That dumb son

of a bitch can find someone else to take up his slack.

I just can't..."

 

As tear stalled long on her jaw, the breeding pair spiraled gone

in a low sun, leaving birds in the driveway fledged in the nest of

their making.