By J.J. Tindall
September 1, 2017
After W.H. Auden
“This is my shadow.
There are many like it
But this one is mine,” I thought
As I, uncertain and afraid,
Played with its shapes
While taking the recycling out
To the green bins
In the back alley.
Shade on stone,
My idiosyncratic, beleaguered
Silhouette:
Like a snowflake,
Utterly unique in sub-atomic detail.
Like clouds:
Shadow makers & shadow killers.
White clouds come
In flotilla into this neutral air: catamarans, dhows,
Sampans & kayaks,
Their shadows making
A mirror configuration in black
Across the plain. The engine is wind,
The fuel is mind.
Trees applaud the breeze!
When the clouds coalesce,
All shadows die.
Solid as a cloud
I lean slightly into the breeze &
My shadow leans with me.
Wait: that cloud looks
Like an adapter for a 45 rpm
Single, allowing it to fit snugly
Onto a phonograph record player spindle.
Now comes a convoy of carriages:
Landaus, phaetons, hansoms, victorias.
Then a canopy of oak tree tops:
Burr, pin, black & scarlet.
I could do this forever,
In near-stupor, defenseless, yet
Investing an affirming flame
Into the smallest tasks, seizing
Eternity in every shadow & cloud,
Each embodying a euphoric dream.
Now with my hands I make
A shadow on the alley concrete,
An imperfect square:
Bible, Torah, Gita,
Quran?
You can’t make a cloud but
You can make a shadow.
We must love one another
Or die.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on August 31, 2017