While My Fountain Pen Gently Weeps

Oh dear. Oh good grief. I seem to have made a mistake, a very long time ago. 

I just discovered it because I was closing the windows and noticed how much cooler it is this evening than it was a few nights ago. Which made me think of the grand parties my family used to have on the equinox, with the mulled wine and cider. Yes, and the traditional blue pickles and the clowns, knife throwers, and the trained acrobatic newts.

No really, we had parties like that, as far as you know. Which reminded me of a poem that I wrote and which was published back in 1992. I had to search the archive because I couldn’t remember the title correctly. You’ll see why, I think. 


I thought I heard
the summer die.
It was a small sound
and hollow.

He sat here with me
under this sky made of steam
with a tired smile
and his hat on the floor.

We only said good morning
and that was always early.
But there was one day
of rain,
one shower at midnight.

I hope he will forgive me
his sad sad death.

Indeed it is to laugh. Keeping in mind, this puppy was published. In a book, by a publisher. Copies were sold and (mostly) given to people. It was perched like a dead parrot on Barnes & Noble’s site for about 10 years. I think maybe it went out in a couple of journals too. With a title that’s just simply … wrong.

It should have been called Equinox, right? That’s the end of the summer; there’s not a solstice for 3 months in either direction.

What are you gonna do? Sweep it under the rug I guess. So hey, don’t tell anybody.


Solstice is from the book Finding Oakland
© 1992 by Kyle Kimberlin
Published by White Plume Press, Seattle.

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