An interview with poet Harry Calhoun

Bill Diskin: What do you hope to achieve with your poetry?

Harry Calhoun: I enjoy communicating with others, especially other poets, through my poetry. I also hope that I can continue to develop a reputation as a talented poet whom others would like to publish. So far, while I’ve had limited financial success, I have been lucky to have two books and two chapbooks published in 2009 and 2010, with more on the horizon.

Poetry is sort of the “odd bird” of the literary world. Even people who are voracious fiction readers, or people who paint or pursue other artistic endeavors, seem a little skeptical when you tell them you write poetry. The reactions range from, “Why?” to “I don’t understand poetry” to simple indifference. I guess one of my goals is to make my poetry so accessible that they’ll read it and see why ... and truly understand poetry.

Editor Shirley Allard once said “Your poetry is so real and easy to relate to. I don't know how anyone could read your work and still say ‘I don't get poetry’." That means a lot to me and it’s close to the heart of what I try to do when I write..

BD: What are your earliest recollections of poetry in your life?

HC: Well, of course I was exposed to it early on in school, but I guess I first started liking it — and writing it, badly — in high school. I remember I wrote a poem comparing a girl I had a crush on to a purple-and-green stuffed gorilla. Obviously, I had a lot to learn.

BD: Why, in your opinion, is poetry important in our society?

HC: Well, if you mean important to most people, it’s not. That’s not intended to sound bitter or cynical, it’s just true. There is a website called Outsider Writers for a reason … many writers, and I think especially poets, feel like outsiders, ostracized almost. But for people who care and understand it, poetry is a very pure and, at its best, beautiful way of communicating. One very different from reading fiction or nonfiction … something that connects in a visceral and special way. Poetry at its best either changes you or makes you feel deeply what the poet is expressing.

BD: What inspires you to write?

HC: My wife and my dog. Pain and joy. The ocean and rain and sunshine. It really can be anything, but it’s not an accident that I mention my wife and dog first! Also, I lost both my parents over the period from March 2008 to February 2009, and believe me, soul-searching to get to my feelings about those events inspired me to do a lot of writing. It’s a lot of therapy, sometimes not easy to go through, but it does get the emotions out there and lets you examine them. I have often said that one reason I write is to find out what I’m thinking about. I think that’s true. The poems sometimes surface emotions, fears or simple joys that would otherwise go undetected.


BD: When do you write?

HC: More or less when I feel like it, but often I wake up at night with a bout of insomnia and will write ideas for some poems. I almost never remember them the following morning, which I guess is why I write them down. When I walk my dog, I have developed the knack of ruminating about things and coming up with poems in my head, which I then write down later.

BD: Is there a particular place that you like to write?

HC: Yes, I keep a notebook beside my bed. When I have insomnia, as I mentioned before, I write then. But my wife and I like to take naps on weekend afternoons, and many times I wake up from those snoozes with poems in my head. And of course, I keep several books of poetry by authors I like close by. Just with any other type of writing, you have to read it to be able to write it. Reading newer poets keeps me current, and reading the old ones reminds me that the old dogs still have quite a few tricks to offer.

BD: What poets do you read?

HC: Well, the poets that I consider “mainstream” that I love are W.S. Merwin and Billy Collins. Early on, say in my 20s, Dylan Thomas was a great inspiration to me. Oh, and of course, Charles Bukowski, how can anyone live without some Bukowski? Now, I like to read the young’uns … Christopher Cunningham, out of Asheville in our own North Carolina, is one who bears watching. So is Hosho McCreesh out of New Mexico. I also enjoy people whom I have published in my magazine, Pig in a Poke, which has recently been revived as an online literary magazine. But poets I published there long ago — Jim Daniels and Louis McKee spring immediately to mind — still hold a special place in my heart. I have been reading a lot of McKee lately and marvel at his simple eloquence, the easy way he has of talking about difficult subjects. That is at the very heart of poetry.


BD: What advice do you have for others who might want to get started writing poetry?

HC: As Ray Bradbury once said in Zen and the Art of Writing,, don’t do it for money. Do it for passion, for love of the game, so to speak. And keep at it, and keep reading it and pick up pointers from your betters. Copy shamelessly if you must, and eventually you will become one of your betters!


BD: Have you noticed any trends or patterns in your writing over the past 5-10 years?

HC: Yes, I am writing more and thinking about it less. I throw the first draft on the page longhand and then savagely attack it and rewrite at the computer. I know other people — Christopher Cunningham whom I mentioned earlier — who like to write on the typewriter. Doesn’t matter how you do it, it’s getting it done that matters. As I’ve told my wife, Trina Allen, who is herself an excellent fiction writer, the important thing is to place the seat of your pants on the chair. Then, as someone else once said, just open a vein and let it flow.

BD: Share a comment or two about life, parenthood, nature, teaching, writing, or anything else that you'd like.

HC: Life is great. I have a good job — good enough that I can work part-time and still survive. I would recommend that to anyone. It always seemed unfair to me that a working man would have to relegate his passion, his poems, to two days and a few evenings a week. Having an extra day off means so much to me and I really don’t miss the money. Parenthood I wouldn’t know about it, except to say that there is a reason I have never had children. I’m sure they can be a joy, but I’ve also seen what pain they can cause. Nature: I love it … I am a huge fan of Hal Borland, the nature writer for the New York Times, and I incorporate the woods, the sea, the simple sights I see walking my dog Alex into my poems.

That’s about it. It is so gratifying to me that, at age 56, I’m getting some recognition for my poems. I mean, I had some publications earlier on, but nothing like this. Just call me a late bloomer and a baby boomer, and happy either way. And thanks for the interview!

Further reading:

Harry Calhoun’s articles, literary essays and poems have appeared in several magazines including Writer’s Digest and The National Enquirer.

Check out his trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf, the recently published The Black Dog and the Road and his chapbook, Something Real.

He’s had recent publications in Chiron Review, Chiaroscuro, Orange Room Review, The Centrifugal Eye, Monongahela Review and many others.

He is the editor of Pig in a Poke magazine. Read Harry's poetry and more at http://harrycalhoun.net.

An interview with poet Helen Losse

Below are the unedited responses from poet Helen Losse to questions I asked her in preparation for a column I wrote for the Independent Tribune (Concord, NC).

Bill Diskin: What do you hope to achieve with your poetry?

Helen Losse: I want to share the hope that is in me through my poetry. I want to explore and discover “truth.” I want to allow others to think with me and to come to see that the truth matters so much more than the facts. I write to give glimpses of what it means to be human in God’s world. I want to share the hope that it is possible for us to be human together and live in peace.

BD: What are your earliest recollections of poetry in your life?

HL: I was exposed to poetry as a child without being told it was poetry. My mother read and quoted nursery rhymes and songs, and sometimes she read poems she had known from her childhood—poems her mother had read to her. I had no idea I was listening to poetry; I just liked listening to my mother recite and sing.

BD: Why, in your opinion, is poetry important in our society?

HL: Poetry can present useful and powerful ways to look at life. Important ideas (and ideals)—such as love and hope—can be expressed through images and in the musical element of human language. Imagery and musicality are exaggerated in poetry (as opposed to prose). These images (and music) can change the world. Because images are not judgmental, they allow readers to bring their own experience to the poem (as though anyone ever leaves his/her experience behind) in an honest way that informs the very image itself and makes it useful to the reader. Poets—in their search for truth—can say things no one else can, because poets are not bound to a particular set of doctrines or world views. Poets can bring truth and, therefore, social change to the world in ways no preacher, columnist, historian, or teacher can; poets may but do not have to work in opposition to others. Poets challenge the status quo.

BD: What inspires you to write? Do you have a story about what inspired "Negating Natural Erasers"?

HL: Natural beauty, human love, social injustice, memories of a happy childhood, and God deep within my soul inspire me to write.

I started to say, no to a story behind this particular poem, but the reality is I began it by recalling the evening walks, I took with my Mother, Dad, and older son Troy the year I was pregnant with my younger son. My husband had left Troy and me in Missouri to spend about six weeks with my parents. While there, we often spent part of the week at my parents’ trailer on The Grand Lake of the Cherokees near Grove, Oklahoma. The trailer was in a quiet, rural retirement village, where many of the residents walked in the cool evenings. The “rocky road” and the “dusty weeds” were located there, but we never walked it after midnight, and I can’t recall walking the road that circled the development alone. The ocean scene was an extension of the lake scene—connected by the presence of water. The ocean must be the Atlantic; I’ve seen the Pacific only once and never felt its waves on my bare feet.

I love the ocean because its vastness puts life in perspective. The tide (and the wind) wash away much that “proves” we were here. And thinking about something that big (and powerful) opens me up for large questions. I can make my mark on the landscape, but will it remain? Is making (and leaving) a mark on humanity more important than the one we make on nature? Can I change the world so that it is a better place when I leave it than when I came? How? Is it “by writing love songs?”

Poets use metaphor to compare and contrast. I meant “love songs” in the broadest way one can imagine. An ode to the ocean is a love song. Poets also make mental leaps in which the subjects are related then leave it to the reader to figure out how they are related.

BD: When do you write?

HL: I write when I have the time to do so and when I feel that anxiousness that tells me to do so. I don’t have a set routine. I often write as a response to natural beauty—God did make a lovely world.— and more recently from prompts. Having said that, I know, it is easier to write form negative rather than positive emotion. I write to make the world better.

Since I am a happy person by nature and choice, I must allow myself to go (mentally and emotionally) into places where I do not dwell in my “real life” in order to write poetry. Many creative people have a melancholy side that is or borders on depression; I do not. I have said many times that I am too well adjusted to be a poet.

BD: Is there a particular place that you like to write?

HL: I write at my computer, because it works for me. I used to write poems longhand first, but “cut and paste” seems more efficient.

[I just stopped answering a different question to write this one.]

Just seconds ago, three young deer came running across my back yard. I saw them from my seat at the computer. Yes, I know deer eat azaleas. But what further inspiration does one need to write? I named my blog, “Windows Toward the World,” because I spend a lot of time at my computer, and my poems begin here. From my window, I can see several trees—evergreen and deciduous, a dogwood and a crepe myrtle, whose blossoms look like fire, when seen from a distance—various bushes, the deck, hanging baskets, a bird house, bird feeders, the ditch in front of the Duke Power right of way—they do things to nature that I hate—long and short grass, a falling down metal storage shed, an outdoor fire pit, a fallen-and-cut-up but not-yet-hauled-away tree, a concrete mixer and unidentified junk. Deer, dogs, and children run through from time to time. My back yard is my “triggering town.” (See The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo, which is my favorite book about writing poetry.) I can go anywhere from my back yard. The view from the window gives me a place to start.


BD: What poets do you read?

HL: I read a lot of local poets that I hear at poetry readings. And I read a lot of southern poets who submit poems to The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, where I am the Poetry Editor. But you want names, right? I always hate this, because I might leave someone out.

Jane Mead, Dennis Sampson, Christine Garren, Kathryn Stripling Byer, Cathy Smith Bowers, Carter Monroe, Tim Peeler, Scott Owens, Jessie Carty, and many of the poets who have read at Poetry Hickory. That’s just a few. I do try to support poets by buying and reading books at poetry readings. Sometimes I just reach for a book I’ve already read. I keep all the poetry books I buy.

I read a few journals: The Main Street Rag, The Iodine Review, ….


BD: What advice do you have for others who might want to get started writing poetry?

HL:
Show, don’t tell.
Never preach.
Find your own voice.
Listen for the music in the words you choose.
Be careful when you use rhyme.
Showcase your vocabulary in appropriate places.
Revise. Revise. Revise.

taken from my essay, “Suggestions for Poets.”

BD: Have you noticed any trends or patterns in your writing over the past 5-10 years?

HL: Oh, yes. Of course, I have. Jane Mead, with whom I studied poetry at Wake Forest University, once remarked—probably quoting someone—that poets seem to write the same poem over and over. And we do. Much of the imagery in my poems can be seen out my window. Trees, deer, wind, grass, rivers, the ocean, the cabin our family had in Oklahoma when I was a child, the ocean, the Mulberry Tree at the back of our yard when I was a child, all appear in multiple poems. The mountains and the coast of North Carolina provide rich settings that appear over and over.

Although I grew up and went to college in Missouri, I have lived all of my adult life in North Carolina: 15 years in Charlotte, where I taught English, etc. at Charlotte Christian School and Carolina Christian Day School, 2 years in Walkertown just east of Winston-Salem, and the last 24 years in Winston-Salem. This gives me two homes—two setting from which to write—one as a child and one as an adult, one in distant the other in recent memory.

I often write dream sequences in which imagination and reality are blurred. My first book, Better With Friends, explores the intersections of memory (factual and embellished), dreams (daydreams and night dreams), reverie, and prayer, so that all of one’s thoughts can be envisioned as prayer. Although the book has strong spiritual overtones, it is not a religious book nor a book of poetic devotions. The events that serve as story in the poems make possible a life in which one can “pray without ceasing” (II Thessalonians 5:17) through the bad and the good. Being a Christian always colors my point of view.

BD: Share a comment or two about life, writing, art, the poetry scene in North Carolina, toasters, or anything else that you'd like:

HL: I am glad that I learned very early in life that happiness is a choice. As an adult, I have learned that it is a choice that is easier for some than others. I am glad I made that choice early and that happiness is a habit with me. I do not shoulder the unhappiness of the world (and there is much). but I do try to empathize with others. I did write a poem about depression, which a bi-polar friend said rang true. My goal is to live one life well. Living life well has little to do with one’s vocation.

The poetry scene is North Carolina is vibrant. The more poets I meet, the more I feel I am a part of something large and diverse something that matters. I see that through submissions at the Dead Mule, where I am the Poetry Editor. Because the editors and publisher of the Dead Mule are located in North Carolina, we get lots of submissions from North Carolina poets, although we publish literature from all of the south. I’ve met a lot of poets through the Dead Mule. Scott Owens, a poet from Hickory who organizes Poetry Hickory, where I’ve met a number of poets, shared with me that you might be receptive to including me in this project, and here I am. Poets share; they are that kind of people.

Ah, toasters. Actually I have two: a toaster oven that is good for baking the small packages of biscuits that we use when I cook sausage on Sundays and the $8 pop-up kind that toasts cheap bread for BLTs. My husband and son once saw a toaster at the mall that cost several hundred dollars. I’m glad I know, no toaster on earth is worth that kind of money. 

Local newspaper celebrates poetry

The Independent Tribune(Concord and Kannapolis, NC) publishes a monthly column celebrating local poetry.

Stardust

by Lorri Barrier

In memory of Vickie Honeycutt

“One must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you, you still have chaos in you. “ ~Fredrick Nietzsche

We are stars
winking at each other
across the universe.
We glow, burn and die,
our light glorious in the black sky.
A blanket for the moon--
a quilt of wishes.
Stargazers know
some stars are gone.
The light reaching the eye
is older than a thousand grandmothers.

A constellation of memory--
Summer lightning bugs
the first red bud of spring
a maple tree in fall—all burning, burning.
Our winter breath frost
so cold it burns us, too.
Catch my dreams, sister star,
make me believe they are possible
the way you did then
when your light was housed in flesh
and hope poured from your pen.

Outside Your Front Door

by Roger Elliott

See the world...
outside your front door
Anything can happen,
when you close your eyes
...open your heart
open up to the world,
...the world outside
outside your front door
Slow things down,
don't move so fast,
look around...
...don't look past
...the world outside,
outside your front door
Ants a crawling...
birds a calling...
Flowers are blooming,
trees are swaying...
swaying to a song...
singing a song...
outside your front door
So much life hidden,
...hidden from your eyes
open your heart,
so you can see
Listen to the buzz...
of a bumble bee
Watch the birds,
as the build a nest,
...piece by piece,
making a home...
...without rest
So much life,
...so much to see
See the world...
outside your front door

Doofy

by Roger Elliott

I'm the doofy,
I'm the goofy,
I'm the foolish one
Chasing dreams,
chasing rainbows,
chasing everything,
dreams unknown,
chasing places
...places never gone
Looking to find,
a peace of mind...
things I think,
things I see,
...things I feel
that set me free
I'm the doofy,
I'm the goofy,
I'm the foolish one
Why don't you join me,
set yourself free
You never know
...what you may find
stuff hidden in your heart,
things hiding...
hiding in the corners,
the corners of your mind
There is a you...
that you don't know,
turn it loose...
set it free...
Chase a rainbow,
walk with me...
I'm the doofy,
I'm the goofy,
I'm the foolish one
Take my hand and join me,
together we will be free...

Roger Elliott lives in Hickory, NC

Independent Tribune Poetry Corner

The Independent Tribune in Concord, NC is publishing local poetry!

Bicycling in the morning

-- by Ryan McGhee

Leaving the cul-de-sac
I look both ways
A quick glance over the shoulder
Do I need to hug the curb?
Multi-tasking traffic patterns
A way of life learned early

Down the road, huff and puff
Time the light
Stop and drink
Pay attention!
Where am I?
Where are they?

Signal right and

B – r – e – a – th

Sip

Relax

Hello Methodists
A check over the shoulder and I’m free (of cars)
Running fast, or not so fast
Are the dogs out today?
I tuck deep
The wind at 30 miles-an-hour sounds like a car about to pass
I’m climbing again
it’s not work anymore

Smell the pasture
Take in the cows and the barn’s skeleton
Work some more
Good work
Not quite farm work, but good none the less

Another turn
A drink
Wave to people on the coner
Relax
Then the long slog into Huntersville

[Several minutes pass]

Are the kids playing?
No, it’s too early today
The swings sit silent, waiting

Some work
Some fun
Corn, grass, and houses
Then a remarkable sight:

A lone goat stands in the corner of the yard
Looking across the road
What is he staring at?

Then I see it
The sun peaking over the trees
He too feels the sunrise is a moment worth savoring
He savors better, more fully

I’m off
Trees and homes
Flowers and sunshine
Miles pass by, and I forget to think
Not thinking, I plan my novel:
It’s clear as the morning air
A first scene and some recurring themes

A little more work, and the spell is broken
I turn
Safe, but aware again

There are several ways home
Some involve sub-divisions
Others, narrow lanes with hurried Saturday drivers
Are they upset with me?
Do they worry for my safety
Or that they will miss the next light on my account?

Ryan McGhee is CTO of the Cabarrus Health Alliance. He lives and rides in Charlotte, NC.

Local paper publishing poetry!

The Independent Tribune (Kannapolis and Concord, NC) is now publishing the poetry of local poets and writers. Check it out at:

http://www2.independenttribune.com/content/2009/sep/14/local-poet-inspired-past/lifestyles/

Then, send in a poem or two!

The Son

Who does God picture when he
thinks of his father?

Does he have a shiny, square,
black and white photograph

of his dad standing on the porch
in a clean, white shirt?

-- Bill Diskin

Nature Knows Its Music

Nature Knows Its Music
By Olivia Higgins
Inspired by Joan Bransfield Graham’s Poem “Nature Knows Its Math”


Nature knows its music
Birds singing a happy song
Nature knows its music
Chipmunks practicing their harmony
Nature knows its music
Wood logs playing musical instruments like sticks
Beating on turtle shells
Nature knows its music
Leaves going to Paris to take music lessons
Nature knows its music

A Teacher’s Joy (by Peggy Street)

A Teacher’s Joy

Dedicated to the many children
who have touched my life over the years

A teacher’s joy is found
In each unfolding day.
It’s written in the smiles
Of children as they play.

It’s there among hands raised,
Amidst the stories told,
Small voices offering praise,
A hand reached out to hold.

It’s in each work of art,
Each masterpiece prepared,
The look in eager eyes
As new learning is shared.

My joy is in the growth
Of children as they learn,
And as they do they teach
Me so much in return.

I’m happy for the time
With each dear girl and boy;
Remember as you go
That you have been my joy!

-- By Peggy Street

#45 (by Allison M.)

#45

driving fast
on a hill near home
in a hurry
(I always am)

halted by the
flashing lights
of an obnoxious yellow bus,
with each red blink
I watch the clock and sigh
with angst I’ve rehearsed
for 17 years.

from the slow screeching doors
comes a girl
with sun colored curls
and a bright pink backpack

have I forgotten?
how it feels to be so small
surrounded by scary metal machines
and endless rivers of asphalt
in my clean white sneakers

I had forgotten,
until then
when I watched her cross the street.

and even after the school bus
lurches on
I pause, smile and
wave
to the me I’d missed for eleven years.

-- by Allison M.

There is a Brokenness (Rashni)

A slight departure from our usual postings. Reni Fulton, a poet/therapist wrote the following this morning, and included the poem below:

I'm sure that everyone is feeling the pain of the great natural disaster that has enveloped the Gulf Coast. The images are heartbreaking and has left us all with a sense of uneasiness and a loss of security. When I feel so powerless I retreat to poetry and prayer. I found this in Women Prayers edited by Mary Ford-Grabowsky and I wanted to share it on the blog if possible. It seems to give some hope amid the brokenness of the world. (Reni Fulton)


There is a Brokenness

There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
a shatteredness
out of which blooms the unshatterable.
There is a sorrow
beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility
out of whose depths emerges strength.

There is a hollow space
too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness
we are sanctioned into being.

There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open
to the place inside which is unbreakable
and whole,
while learning to sing.


Rashni

Her Love You (J. Ebon Proctor Sr.)

By the light of the candle
I see her silhouette.
Her frame is not her name.
But if you want her pleasures.
You have to deal with past, present.
And future endeavors.
The epitome of what she is about.
Makes GOD! The man of the house.
Coastin’ past emotions.
Supersede all her needs.
What used to be acceptable.
Now has to be liable and respectable.
So far from the action.
That was faked out for satisfaction.
No love… til the phone call after the club.
Finding out the pedestal
Is a step down from the crown.
If or when she answers that phone.
ALONE
Thinking do you want me?
Or do you want mine?
What’s on the clock?
Or my time?
Wasted years, tasted tears for water.
Sometimes it takes pain.
To get life in order.
Better is in front of you.
Heaven is above you.
But before he loves her.
Her has to love you.

--- J. Ebon Proctor Sr (2005)

3MW (by Debberae Streett)

3MW

Attention K-Mart shoppers:
We would like to direct your attention
to our current blue-light special in the
sporting goods department---
All the ammo you can carry in one hand
for just $9.99. Don't wait. Stock up now.

Attention all prospective car buyers:
Now is the time to push, pull, drag, or drive
your old wreck to your nearest Hummer dealer---
We are having an unauthorized, previously
unadvertised sale on the Deluxe Macho Edition
HumVee. Personal body armor sold separately.

Attention all residents of the continental United States:
We are having an unprecedented shipping on
Inter Continental Ballistic Missles. This is the last
and only three minute warning you will receive. No
preparation is needed. No escape is possible. Just
pick up your cellphone and say goodbye.

by Debberae Streett
12-13-04

Somewhere Along Life’s Way (by Harry William Dayhoff)

Somewhere Along Life’s Way

When I’m relaxed my thoughts retreat
Back to a long forgotten day
I think about the friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I feel the handclasps that were pressed
I hear warm greetings they conveyed
I see the smiles from friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I see grins as broad as oceans
I sense the message they portrayed
I dream of times with friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I replay music that reminds me
Of favorite songs from yesterday
In harmony with friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I long again to trace my footsteps
To capture dreams that slipped away
I’ll forever hold dear friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I love to turn my memories on
And listen intently while they play
Orchestrations by friends I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

I look backward not to whine or pout
But to count my blessings as I pray
Because of friends like you I’ve met
Somewhere along life’s way.

--Harry William Dayhoff (06-14-02)

Still Life with Metaphor (by Barbara DeCesare)

Still Life with Metaphor

Not enough anchor to hold down the vessel
but too much weight to slip away.
Some girls became dancers
or doctors or wives
and I became sleepy
at the very first
picnic.

by Barbara DeCesare

Occasionally (by Becky K.)

Occasionally, the remembered taste
of morning's first cigarette
like the cry of a single gull
strikes a chord of longing
bittersweet like dark chocolate
that flares up and burns sweetly
seductively curling and filtering
dragging me back
then...blown away like ashes.

by Becky K.

Nature of the City (By Carol Clark Williams)

Nature of the City

Day cranks the sun across its designated arc,
metallic blue against serrated edges
of shingled city rooftops, colonial spires.

Automatons open doors marked enter,
and/or exit, according to their daily programs
while parking meters track the time.

Mechanical birds chirp tonelessly,
informing the visually challenged
at intervals when they may enter crosswalks.

From the fenced-in churchyard tree,
recorded hawks shrill repetitious litanies,
attempting to banish blackbirds.

In the park, helmeted workers drive small noisy tractors
across cultivated turf, rough macadam paths,
and carefully prune evergreens into perfect squares.

by Carol Clark Williams (2005)