Fourth of July

It's been a very quiet Independence Day here, but a good one. I did wander out (in my car) tonight, searching for some fireworks to watch. (I love fireworks.) I didn't want to wrestle with the traffic near the big Martinsburg City-sponsored fireworks, but figured I might be able to see some of the smaller amateur shows. (Fireworks are legal in this state, unlike NY where I grew up, and I am still amazed at the kinds of things ordinary folks can set off.) Anyway, I pulled into the parking lot of a supermarket really close to my house when I saw that some people were shooting off some pretty decent fireworks in a clearing just beyond the store. But here's the cool part: as luck would have it (and this was total dumb luck) that particular spot had a clear view of the city's big fireworks. So I sat there and watched them--over 30 minutes of pretty impressive stuff. It was strange: part of me was a bit down about watching alone, but part of me also loved it.

Anyway, here's a poem that seems sort of appropriate for today. I found it (you guessed it) on the "Poem of the Day" podcast not too long ago. There's also a great audio version here.

"Facing It"

by Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.