What makes a poem, anyway? Does it have to rhyme “moon” and “June”? Does it need a defined rhythm, like iambic pentameter? Does it require brilliant word plays, like Dylan Thomas’s “sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea”?
Is poetry simply prose broken into measured lines?
Could the items on a grocery list be a poem?
This is forest-fire season in British Columbia. I wanted to experiment with the feelings of being told to leave your home on short notice. Let know what you think.
Evacuation order
Water bombers roar low above the treetops.
Smoke billows black against the sky.
Flames flicker up trees.
Sirens wail.
Pack up --
Right now.
Fifteen minutes.
Don’t talk,
just do it.
Find suitcases.
How many days’ underwear will I need?
How many days’ pills?
Toothbrushes.
Deodorant.
Grab dog.
Leash.
Poo bags.
Has anybody seen the cat?
Goddamn cat!
Passports.
Wallet.
Credit cards.
Insurance policy
I need to water the house plants.
Forget the house plants!
Medical records.
Family photos.
Laptop.
Dry dog food.
Canned cat food.
Where IS that goddamn cat anyway?
He’ll fend for himself!
Stuff stuff in trunk.
And back seat.
Insert dog.
There’s the cat!
Cram cat into cage.
I need Band Aids!
Why Band Aids, for god’s sake?
Because I’m bleeding!
Bloody cat!
Sunglasses.
Hat.
Cell phones.
Address book.
Have we got everything now?
House keys?
Car key?
Yes, officer,
we’re leaving now.
No, we have nowhere to go;
we’re just going.
Maybe we’ll be back
if we have anything left to come back to.
-- Jim Taylor, July 2018