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Poetry by JC Snyder

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  • wrapping paper (tsunami in 2004)

    I … just … don’t know what to say about Japan. Heart-breaking. I cannot write about it right now, but I did want to share a piece written back in 2004 during the “Christmas tsumani” in Thailand… I’m still not sure about this, so please leave your comments.

    Wrapping Paper (2004):

    There is wrapping paper at my door. In black, the headlines:
    A tsunami in Thailand and a hundred
    thousand lost souls.
    In red are the ads, the last great sale at Sears.

    I crumple the paper to wrap
    red swirl
    martini glasses I’m giving this Christmas;

    We tear the paper, litter the carpet–
    the piles of red and black wrappings, they
    begin to lay like bodies.

           Oh God, the bodies!

           “and the earth quaked mightily and shook down the houses,
           wrapped them in dust.
           and the sea rose and wrapped its mouth round the children,
           swallowed them whole.”

    Flotsam litters the carpet. There is nothing left to do here
    but pick up the pieces. But there,
    there –

    God be with the people in Japan, and all those still dealing with the effects of natural disasters from someone who literally cannot imagine it.

    March 14, 2011

  • night without glasses (haiku)

    hazy halos form
    everywhere like a sky of
    angels, still blurry.

    March 11, 2011

  • quietly approaching storm (haiku)

    clouds are a soft grey
    zibeline scarf choking the
    neck of the city.

    March 9, 2011

  • it’s OK to talk about death

    like meeting a Grizzly
    on a river bank in Alaska —

    inevitable
    that he will
    out run
    out swim
    out climb
    you

    but has he decided?
    has he felt a similar fear?

    March 9, 2011

  • what Sunday night feels like

    like the slow
    melt of muscles into bed
    first shivering
    then slowly
    toes on up
    warming, letting go

    March 8, 2011

  • the couch (haiku)

    soft leather, pillows
    reach, wrap, magically take me
    as their own – day ends.

    March 6, 2011

  • like pea soup

    I feel like I’m dying in these fog filled mornings,
    that one orange streetlight a fuzzy eyesore and my mind is buzzing
    with the lack of memories.

    Somewhere in the daze of the morning drive, listening to the song
    the same I heard before I left you last night. The last time
    lingering your scent

    it freely dances across my sweater and into my nose

    Could we go back there and figure things out? I think
    the heavy rain makes a beautiful sound when it hits the glass
    and slides on down;

    I think we might have a chance if we could only take home
    the hazy clouds, lay down, and sleep a little
    finally sleep a little

    [circa 2003?]

    March 4, 2011

  • cast-off

    she says
    “i’m sorry
    i disappeared, it’s just
    i felt that i had been cast-
    off, i always feel
    that way”

    he can’t look her
    in the eye
    having already
    cast his line
    downstream.

    March 2, 2011

  • reading Robert Bly’s "Morning Poems"

    Doesn’t matter
    How many times
    The letters cross my eyes
    It remains –
    Why this curly mouse?
    Why those poems about
    Poets,
    Those oceans
    Filled with rain?
    Why those farms, shocks,
    That
    Conversing with a
    Soul…

    Come, let’s meet
    In a cafe in Maine
    I’ll buy the coffee,
    You bring the
    Letters.

    March 2, 2011

  • view from an airplane

    What causes us to
    Rush?
    Whole lives spent harried, hurried,
    I too have always felt
    Rushed
    To get to this point yet
    I’m not old enough yet
    To understand why
    Look at the cars in traffic
    Snaking their way to and from
    In a steady stream
    Rushing, rushing
    Unaware of this view.

    February 28, 2011

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