In Which Raging Weather is a Gift

By ELLEN DORÉ WATSON

 

Despite barriers of rat screen, parge, and tar,
      despite blustering wind in the chimney,
I think I hear something setting up house
      in the cellar. It’s a night to come in
out of. No lamps no heat no water. I could use
      some music to muffle the barely audible
visitor, but I’m low on batteries and despite the wine
      sweating and losing its cool, it’s my eyes
the candlelight has me having—a row of fat-wicked
      flames doing the hula. I’m saying the sky
changed everything at 4:50 pm and I’m not sorry
      I’m sitting in the bounteous dark, here
where it rarely gets worse. Why not hear cellar
      door-rattle as merely wood—or six degrees
of whatever. How material am I to the sky?
      Why should anyone need to decide
whether to be a fearless haunting or a deliberate
      creature, warily, stealthily breathing?

 

Ellen Doré Watson‘s fifth full-length collection is pray me stay eager. Her poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Tin House, Orion, and The New Yorker. She has translated a dozen books from Brazilian Portuguese, including the work of Adélia Prado. Watson served as poetry editor of The Massachusetts Review and director of the Poetry Center at Smith College for decades, and currently offers manuscript editing and workshops online.

[Purchase Issue 23 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

In Which Raging Weather is a Gift

Related Posts

Contrail across blue sky

July 2025 Poetry Feature: New Poems by our Contributors

GEOFFREY BROCK
Sing, O furrow-browed youth, / of the contrails scoring the sky, / bright as lines of cocaine / until, as they age, the eye // loses them to the blue… / Sing of the thin-skinned plane / that made those ephemeral clouds, / and of all that each contains: // the countless faceless strangers

Fenway Park

Before They Traded Devers

AIDAN COOPER
I don’t know I’m not paying attention I’m crunching / peanut shells thinking Murakami began to write novels / because of baseball why don’t I / my dad’s grumpy / I’m vegetarian now & didn’t want a frank & yes it’s probably / a phase he’s probably right but it’s a good phase

Cover of All Is The Telling by Rosa Castellano

An Embodied Sense of Time: Raychelle Heath Interviews Rosa Castellano

ROSA CASTELLANO
I’m holding a blank page all the time for myself. That’s a truth that I choose to believe in: the blank page is a tool for our collective liberation. It can be how we keep going. I love that we can find each other on the page and heal each other, too. So, I invoke that again and again, for myself, because I need it.