Rusty

A corrugated pipe
that stopped carrying water 20 years ago
after the hillside was clear-cut,
north side green with algae,
south side red as the center of Australia
& the only rust holes on top
where the rain has sought admittance:

I have been of little use
these past few decades
but I’m as full of holes as a flute
only the rarest wind can play
& in the right light
can almost be said to glow.
I will surrender to dissolution
but not right away.
I will give myself over to the patient
ministrations of the rain.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa. In a similarly collaborative fashion, all of Dave’s writing is available for reuse and creative remix under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License. For attribution in printed material, his name (Dave Bonta) will suffice, but for web use, please link back to the original. Contact him for permission to waive the “share alike” provision (e.g. for use in a conventionally copyrighted work).

4 Comments


  1. This is lovely, Dave. One of your best, I think. Sweet and strong, well-worn . . .

    It takes a lot of living to write a poem like that. Your poem calls to mind what Geoff Dyer observed about John Berger (linking him with Shelley, Lawrence, and Orwell, hence the quote’s plural number): “the way that they arranged their lives in such a way as to seek out the experiences appropriate to their respective gifts.” Whenever I think of Robert Bly’s adage, I think of you, too: “To write differently, you have to change your life.”

    Reply

  2. Yes. What Peter said. Attentive and considered writing from attentive and considered living.

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  3. Thanks, guys. It took me a couple of days to get the ending right, so I’m glad this worked for you.

    Reply

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