Olyver Currant: September by G.M. Palmer

Hurricanes have taken over the skies
and the oceans, water turbulent in
transitioning from one state to the next,
wind whipping against the piney timber,
tearing down trees just ravaged by fire that
had flown like wind and rain through forests red
instead of green, a reversal complete
in the ash covered pinecones that sprout great
pines whose needles are stripped off in the wind
and twist of the hurricane winds filling
the air with raindrops like glass sliding through
the heaviest coverings of the Fall.

In this fervent gale, the rain cannot fall,
it is churned and thrown sideways in the skies
red and angry with an ocean’s filling
of salt and ire made in paths that wind
around on currents that have carried great
and horrid men on ships whose ideas threw
hearts for a storm, embroiled by what comes next,
new land, or the blood they wrote their plans in,
drawn out by sweat and shot from once complete
brown bodies who had not expected that
smiling hand would release the sharp timbre
of gunshots that break forth the oozing red

fluid from their skin that is as brown-red
as their faces; like great pine trees they fall,
or fell, conquistadors clear-cutting that
great destiny that was theirs to complete.
The storms are reminders of those times in
which the land was filled with mighty timber
and happy folk, their normal lives filling
the air and their stories making the skies
alive like hurricanes, clouds packed in next
to each other in hunting packs of great
viciousness and wrath that like dancers wind
about themselves as they all follow through



the motions of stormy ballet, and through
their Sufi churning they turn the skies red
in fits of rain and wind that knock the great
and small and the mediocre and next
the gargantuan and rebellious skies
themselves, torn wide as waters and winds wind
in a battle of the elements that
mother Earth loses the start of each Fall,
lakes and ponds dried in Summer’s heat, filling
with the wrath of African currents in
Autumn that must cry by storm to complete
themselves, wailing with thunderheads’ timbre.

Under the shadow of oaken timber
I am here, below giants, working through
the rubble of my youless year. An in
to my thoughts, any point of in, filling
the blanks with the colors of early Fall,
but there are no gaps, my mind is complete,
whole, and empty as the memories grate
against forgettings and letters unread
and unsent, what is that sound, what is that?
Under the awnings of my mind’s wide skies,
awaiting the inevitable next
of dying, these questions all tightly wind.

It is not just our arguments that wind,
shoutings sounded from poems like timber
chainsaws felling sections from piney skies,
each jab culled from books and sharpened on that
whetting stone of study, stained brick-blood red
by a thousand razor tongues with the next
arrow sharper and more true, piercing in
deeper than the last, not just these, but through
their disinterring, the good times too, grate
hard, as by association they fall
away to a loss without a filling,
a soul and a body left uncomplete



by your leave, now nine months, a year complete,
almost, like the long and drawn out slow wind
of a fisherman’s troll as ripples fall
away from the line before a quick, great
flash of a bass mouth devours it clear through
to its belly a deadly meat filling
its gullet and dragging it to the skies
above, from the water to the timber
to be eaten up for lunch at an Inn
with greasy potatoes and ancient red
cocktail sauce. Safety below ripples that
comforted left him unscared of the next

worm that was not a worm but was the next
step, or stumble, for him meant to complete
his short life in a flash of iron red,
leaving home for the restaurant of an Inn
and a belly in the world of timber.
My memories snare my mind just like that,
sizzling in the skillet of the Fall,
of the first of the Fall, where the storm winds wind
and tear through Florida with angry skies
full of floods and fears, and making it through
to the calm and the cold of Winter’s great
blanket when bodies are busy filling

themselves with warmth and are busy filling
their stomachs with food, waiting to hear next!
called from the window that the food comes through.
It is not Winter though, and the Autumn skies
are filled with raining and hot clouds that wind
up dropping fire and not water in great
mistaken showers as if Fall had read
the Summer’s ire at being uncomplete
in its torture. The elderly folk fall
to agony, spreading the shrill timbre
of the ambulance; uncannily in
Florida they thrive, definite proof that



everyone has air conditioning that
works. If they only cared about filling
the dying forests with newborn timber
or dying minds with respite of the Fall
as they do about freon and complete
refrigeration systems, or what’s in
the Market today, we would be seen through
to the end of all time, but the call next!
disrupts the hope as the light changes red
to green and all the automobiles wind
around the streets oblivious of skies
above filled with rain and change; bridge grates grate

under the mass of moving cars and great
moving trucks taking families from that
city to this one as jet airplanes wind
around above airports; the sky turns red
and then to night; TVs glow as next
week’s old news is new. Under foreign skies,
surrounded by unfamiliar timber
and strange tongues you are walking, clouds filling
up with wind and with rain, you have been through
with me for months. I am still incomplete.
I do not know why though. This skin should fall
away with every passing day but in

this year I feel unchanged; you did me in
I thought but I should be reborn of great
ashes by now, grieving should be complete
but there is still this hole that things fall through.
I am a Danaid’s sieve, always filling
and unfilling, they do not let me fall
but keep on, as in Hades’ halls they wind,
and always returning with the hope that
they may fill their pools. Splintering timber
is my brain and I don’t know what comes next.
The September clouds are angry and red
and I look for redemption in the skies.

Hurricanes crowd the brutal skies and in
moments the winds come and next bend timber
cities to the ground as the evil red
of storm grows to a complete and great
bloodstain, waters wind in the eye filling
through streets, fields, and beaches, birthing the Fall.

About G.M. Palmer