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Michael T.
Young
Michael
T. Young's work has appeared in many journals including:
The Christian Science Monitor, Folio, The Hollins Critic,
Pivot and Rattapallax. He was a semi-finalist for the Discovery/The
Nation contest and was recently nominated for a Pushcart
Prize. His chapbook, Because the Wind Has Question was published
in 1997 and his book, Transcriptions of Daylight was published
in 2000 by Rattapallax Press. To order his book send him
an e-mail at michaeltyoung@go.com
The Fall
in Voter Turnout
The pine's elected to the maple's post,
the fly's buzzword is vetoed by the day,
streams in a presidential race all boast
in speeches glittering with icy spray.
The squirrels lobby to protect their nuts,
the honeysuckle prosecutes the bee,
the Sun, pro-lifer that he is, throws fits
about the New Moon's pro-choice policy.
The winds approve this autumn, pass its leaves,
decline more funding to the seed committee.
So every bear believes what he believes,
and all the deer are moving to the city.
(Originally published in the journal Pivot, in 1997)
Surfaces
Slow ebbing of the flood tide, gradual
retreat and surrender of the trawler's wake.
As the bottom of the bay rises, a gull
descends and pokes through broken shells and rock.
He scurries furiously back and forth.
He lifts and drops a stone. He tears at clumps
of seaweed, prods a sudden bubbling froth
between his toes, then poses his wings and jumps.
Here, at bottom, there's nothing but survival.
A crab digs deeper in the sand to stay
hidden and undisturbed till the revival
of the moon and the flooding of the bay.
Even the boats betray a need for surface:
their long hulls sunken up to the prow's arc,
their sleek nets dripping, losing significance,
slowly, as they dry all night in the dark.
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Feature Poet:
Michael T. Young
Dad
He often dreams of what he wants to be
and sleeps just to remember what it's like:
young, anxious to grow, fresh with fantasy.
He often dreams of what he wants to be.
And when he can't sleep, drinks, forgets, feels free
to hate the children, raise his hand and strike.
He often dreams of what he wants to be
and sleeps just to remember what it's like.
(Originally appeared in the chapbook Because The Wind Has
Questions,published by Somers Rocks Press in 1997)
A Man of Glass
My father collected art glass,
vases and bowls from Webb and Tiffany,
some glazed yellow and red, brilliant as sunsets,
others clear as a splash of water.
Carefully taking one down from a shelf,
he'd say, "Notice the enamel finish"
or "Look at the quality of the inlay."
Each contained its own beauty and signature,
which he delighted in unlocking.
And when the cancer started shaping him
like molten glass, it hollowed out his cheeks,
made deep pontil marks in his bony face.
His eyes glazed to a dark finish on his brittle life,
his unique gesture when curiously pleased –
flicking a finger down his nose and laughing –
his own beauty and signature,
which I would like so much to show you
but is on a shelf I cannot reach.
(Originally appeared in the collection Transcriptions of Daylight,
published by Rattapallax Press in 2000)
How Things Are Lost
Sunlight swathes the window sill in gold
then drifts across the room
losing its way between the bed and door.
You stumble in this shifting light,
already forgot the color of gold
and what it means to see the sun.
As you go, the sidewalk takes your sounding
steps
like manufactured plaudits and hands
them out among some gutted buildings.
Along the way, hope fell silent in
the city fountain, dry as any marble desert.
The winter ice has melted from beneath
your feet, but now the panacean salt
has stained the red brick white.
Bushes in the city park quiver
as families of finches chirp in their bowels.
But no one notices them or notices how
it means so much that they are there.
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