Left In Lowell

It’s been a long time since the mood struck me to write poetry. But as I was walking back to the studio from having lunch downtown, where the preparations for this weekend were underway, and I was thinking about Lowell’s history, the environment, and the Festival, it was hard to resist the twitch.

It’s barely edited, probably crap (I can’t tell if a poem is crap until I’ve been away from it a while) but in light of this weekend, which is about music, art, culture and the world, I thought I might share. Have a good weekend, and for our out-of-town visitors, welcome to Lowell.

——

Festival Town

Barriers up,
white plastic pavilions on street corners
like doves.
The damp air waiting
for its flock of tinted harmonies;
thousands of revelers converge tonight.

My walk back carries me
along canals
dredged by men from stubborn earth.
Abandoned sores which, with a shift of sight,
become dark, rippled, wildflower-rimmed jewels.

Smokestacks in the hazy sun, now silent.
Invisible breath, gives life, gives death,
we made you.

Beneath a willow I reach up,
its trailing leaves slide down my arm
pockmarked by some new tiny pinching horror
that has crept up from more southern climes.

Behind me, a city prepares to honor
art and song and manufacture.

Synthesis: our curse, our ruin.
Our only antidote.

At dusk,
we will dance.