{"id":3042,"date":"2017-07-24T00:35:23","date_gmt":"2017-07-24T00:35:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=3042"},"modified":"2017-07-24T00:35:23","modified_gmt":"2017-07-24T00:35:23","slug":"derick-varn-summer-2017","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/derick-varn-summer-2017\/","title":{"rendered":"Derick Varn, Summer 2017"},"content":{"rendered":"

Georgia Landscape from Highway 75<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Kudzu cover overcame the grotto<\/p>\n

pissquick, choking out the mosaic<\/p>\n

pines and oaks like they were bathed<\/p>\n

into lye and red clay. For nature,<\/p>\n

witless nature, dumb to its own<\/p>\n

screaming, eats itself to seek freedom<\/p>\n

to gorge even more. The marsh would<\/p>\n

muck-up the ground like a limping<\/p>\n

bondsman, falling into itself over<\/p>\n

and over again as the catch got away.<\/p>\n

Who needs brush fire when one<\/p>\n

has a Japanese beetle to eat<\/p>\n

away the Spring with all the<\/p>\n

attendant dirty work.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Beyond the switchgrass,<\/p>\n

there are bill boards: \u201cLive Nude<\/p>\n

Girls\u201d\u2014as opposed to dead<\/p>\n

ones, one thinks\u2014and the sky<\/p>\n

unfolds like a taffy wrapper,<\/p>\n

hoisted up on the lightning scarred<\/p>\n

pines, the shadows disappear<\/p>\n

into a day dreams erratically,<\/p>\n

air like a lover\u2019s breathe after<\/p>\n

a five mile jog, humid, exhaust,<\/p>\n

any lust lingering the sweet notes<\/p>\n

behind the sweat beading on brows.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Triggering<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I sit on the balcony<\/p>\n

Of my Cairo apartment,<\/p>\n

White tile covered in black<\/p>\n

And brown dirt, looking<\/p>\n

Down I notice blood in<\/p>\n

My sweating glass of whisky:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Gums bleeding this time<\/p>\n

From age and not a fist,<\/p>\n

And I can\u2019t shake the student<\/p>\n

Who stared at me dead eyed<\/p>\n

As she was caught for copying<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Her essay on literature of<\/p>\n

The Irish Troubles from<\/p>\n

Internet notes. She blanks,<\/p>\n

Hollows out, like watching<\/p>\n

Someone being beat, and<\/p>\n

As I spit more blood down<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Into the street mumbling<\/p>\n

To myself about a dentist<\/p>\n

I feel like I recognize that<\/p>\n

Whiteness. In Georgia, an<\/p>\n

Adopted brother recently<\/p>\n

Home from the Iraqi desert<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Talked to me about Kurdistan:<\/p>\n

He won\u2019t turn his back to a window<\/p>\n

And can\u2019t drive during fireworks:<\/p>\n

He hand always steady but<\/p>\n

For a moment it trembles as if<\/p>\n

A silent gun un-muffles. The<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Next day, a teacher tells me<\/p>\n

My student was in Nablus<\/p>\n

Two years before visiting<\/p>\n

Her Palestinian cousin, then<\/p>\n

Watches an IMI Gabil spread<\/p>\n

Her aunt and uncle unto concrete.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No context beyond that. I want<\/p>\n

Tell her that I don\u2019t know that hate,<\/p>\n

Although it is similar the hate<\/p>\n

Spit into every suburb after any<\/p>\n

War. I have never been a soldier<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But I have washed blood off a road<\/p>\n

And not the particular rot of burning<\/p>\n

Hair and gun powder. I want to whisper<\/p>\n

To her the only sweetness I know in<\/p>\n

Arabic: habibi. I won\u2019t touch you<\/p>\n

To comfort you. Habibi, turn<\/p>\n

Frustrated emptiness into sadness.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Habibi, when we have trouble<\/p>\n

Telling bottle rockets from guns,<\/p>\n

We can still spit at the life we<\/p>\n

Didn\u2019t will ourselves. We can<\/p>\n

Count our scars as much as<\/p>\n

We do our sins. Habibi,<\/p>\n

there is a fat pigeon on<\/p>\n

The window. It will fly<\/p>\n

Away as like my hair<\/p>\n

This will pass. The<\/p>\n

Sand dunes are mistaken:<\/p>\n

We can be blown<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In ways beyond passivity,<\/p>\n

We can answer this spectre<\/p>\n

We like to pretend is justice<\/p>\n

Without being abraded away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Invasion of the Garbage Snatchers<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The incinerator fueled by the heat<\/p>\n

of our rage, on the grim peripheral<\/p>\n

of our raving, the stranger eyes<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of skunks and raccoons gather<\/p>\n

at the fray to sup at the remains<\/p>\n

of the gathered debris of days.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The grocery waste dumbed<\/p>\n

in the fire\u2019s haul: the skittering<\/p>\n

of teeth drag each morsel<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

away. The fevered parataxis:<\/p>\n

the giving of what we waste<\/p>\n

away, the waste of what we<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

can\u2019t give. Our minds aren\u2019t<\/p>\n

right: creating eyesores on<\/p>\n

the forest edge, Mount Meru<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

of trash. I watch the raccoons<\/p>\n

scope away of what remains<\/p>\n

to burn, the Spring yet to set<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the sky on fire with reflected<\/p>\n

blooms, and winter\u2019s fading,<\/p>\n

so the heat isn\u2019t necessary.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

C Derick Varn is a poet, teacher, and theorist. He
\ncurrently edits for Former People<\/em> and is a reviewer for the Hong Kong<\/em>
\nReview of Books<\/em>. Originally from Georgia, he currently abides in Utah,
\nbut his nomadic tendencies have found him living in Cairo, Egypt,
\nvarious places in South Korea and Northern Mexico. He lives with his
\nwife, and a bunch of books, and writes at night. He has published in
\nDanse Macabre, Writing Disorder, JMWW, Clutching at Straws, Xenith,<\/em>
\nPiriene\u2019s Fountain, Nebo, Yes, Poetry!,<\/em> and many other venues.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Georgia Landscape from Highway 75   Kudzu cover overcame the grotto pissquick, choking out the mosaic pines and oaks like they were bathed into lye and red clay. For nature, witless nature, dumb to its own screaming, eats itself to seek freedom to gorge even more. The marsh would muck-up the ground like a limping […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-3042","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nDerick Varn, Summer 2017 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/derick-varn-summer-2017\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Derick Varn, Summer 2017 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Georgia Landscape from Highway 75   Kudzu cover overcame the grotto pissquick, choking out the mosaic pines and oaks like they were bathed into lye and red clay. 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