Responding to the 'lightning' effect

 

“A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.” –      James Dickey

 

Born in Atlanta in 1923, Dickey was a multiple award winner for his poetry and other writings, including the taut bestselling novel Deliverance – also made into an acclaimed movie.  His book Buckdancer's Choice earned him the National Book Award for Poetry and an appointment as U.S. Poet Laureate in the mid-1960s.   All 331 of Dickey’s poems were collected into The Complete Poems of James Dickey following his death in 1997.   For Saturday’s Poem, here is Dickey’s,

 

                                         At Darien Bridge

                                   The sea here used to look
                                   As if many convicts had built it,

                                   Standing deep in their ankle chains,
                                   Ankle-deep in the water, to smite

                                   The land and break it down to salt.
                                   I was in this bog as a child

                                   When they were all working all day
                                   To drive the pilings down.

                                   I thought I saw the still sun
                                   Strike the side of a hammer in flight

                                   And from it a sea bird be born
                                   To take off over the marshes.

                                   As the gray climbs the side of my head
                                   And cuts my brain off from the world,

                                   I walk and wish mainly for birds,
                                   For the one bird no one has looked for

 

                                   To spring again from a flash
                                   Of metal, perhaps from the scratched

                                   Wedding band on my ring finger.
                                   Recalling the chains of their feet,

                                    I stand and look out over grasses
                                   At the bridge they built, long abandoned,

                                   Breaking down into water at last,
                                   And long, like them, for freedom

                                   Or death, or to believe again
                                   That they worked on the ocean to give it

                                   The unchanging, hopeless look
                                   Out of which all miracles leap.