Your Next Poem

Please, no more topography lessons.
I can't visualize a landscape
as complex as yours.
I can work with "abrupt hollows,"
but not "burials of the upland."
And at least tell me
how it felt to walk across it.
I'll stretch for colors but seldom look them up.
I'm learning more trees and birds by name
but I'm not a botanist or ornithologist
and I'm pretty busy these days.

Tell me about yourself—
of how you felt when you finally
stopped crying three days after
the divorce was final, when you saw
the sun break through a cloud
and were grateful,
not at all embarrassed
by the trite quality of your rebirth.
You weren't thinking then
of burials of the upland.

When I hit bottom I need a reminder,
something that hints of meaning and hope.
Urge me to hold on. I know,
you dread being trite and transparent,
but is that worse than too clever?
If art must be collage,
choose pieces I'll recognize.
I don't want to feel stupid.
I want to feel like we're in this together.


James Hannon left academia after twenty years and is now a psychotherapist in Concord, Massachusetts where he works mostly with recovering addicts (and who isn't an addict or in recovery?) His poems have been published in a few places, including Chantarelle's Notebook, Cold Mountain Review, Sahara, Soundings East, and Willard and Maple. He is not a big fan of obscure poetry.