Or the unknown unknown that is is. How we must assume continuity in order to proceed. If your love is like a red red rose, you’ve seen a rose. You’ve seen a love. But this ain’t no party this ain’t no disco this ain’t no foolin around, as the poet says. This is is. With a vengeance — when Rudolph the Red Red Nose shatters in a million pieces when you look at him, you’ll know. Write a sound-poem: make sure it will break a wine glass like a memorex. If you write about “The Seasons,” make sure you know what they were.
The White Bear slowly approaches, travelling southward, bent on freezing the earth (or maybe just raiding the dump), and meanwhile we find it hard not to write about something. Gloves, masks, tubes, mini-death-stars, AK-47s at the capitol, 2 metres, 10 minutes, 5000 litres per trip, 40 celsius as long as you name it. But we left our active verbs at work, and here we are. Catkins dance, buds bounce, tulips bloom, we write, and it revises.
Change looks so much more cinematic when it acts fast — after two weeks of this, the kids are used to it. It is what it is. We adapt, we accept, we wait, write, repress. Repass that last millstone marker. When the roses come out in June, this will all be past. Just another bug to smite, another breathless telling of the jangling racket of time.
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this.