The August-September Editor's Pick Poet is
Kathryn Jacks
Please feel free to email Kathryn at: kdjacks@umail.iu.edu
THE WHISTLING MAN
Deep, deep down in the dark corners
Of the cement rooms where the rats
Feast and the living wish to be dead,
He asks, “Why?”
But there is no why, there is no answer.
Not in a million years, not in a thousand
Iron bar cages that separate the free
From those rotting in the depths of time and loneliness.
There is no why,
No explanation for a deed; they chose,
It happened, now the whys are slammed
Against the dark of fate that whistles no tune the future dead can hear –
He watches with solemn eyes as they reach out
From the bars saying,
“Hey big daddy, whatcha got for me today?”
And he moves on unattached as the lights go off
One by one behind him, pooling shadows
In his lost footsteps as his presence rattles the cages
And stirs the will to break free of
Why –
But it’s too late, so the rats have their feast
And the whistling man, free,
Disappears into the world, unforgotten, untouched
And alone
PLAGUE WILL SET YOU FREE
The infection begins
Beneath the surface;
It creeps into the veins of the unfortunate dead
Only to pollinate the grass
And grow its heathen weeds
And its seeds are usurped by
Treacherous winds from the east –
Only to wipe out the young blackbirds
Gliding on its tail
The disease is in the soil.
The crops become carriers.
There is fear in survival, in water, in the air.
Death is not worse, but
Living under his wing is burden;
Tasting the ash of incarcerated souls
On each breath, wasted
Houses, abandoned.
So many left behind.
Civilization slips away, overnight –
Until the dawn rises on the last
Of a decaying world
Rot,
They whisper.
So plague can set you free.
THE PROMISED
We are the carriers of the damned,
The marchers beneath your feet
The sound of the shifting earth
When the last of summer dies
We are the diamond caves
Which lure thieves from their hideouts
The hiss of rattlesnakes
As the wind torments the trees
We are the funerals of your children
The sunspots on your skin
The nip of frost that sours
All the grapevines in the gorge
We are the rotting apples on
The table decked in fruit
The burnt crisp of logs
In a house no longer standing
We are clay that molds you,
The bones that hold your skin
The iron coffin nails
As they leach air from your lungs
We are the thoughts of suicide,
The last breath before the plunge
The whistle of the hangman
As the rope grazes your throat
We are the unintelligible,
The wise and the voiceless
We are the lies of madmen
And the promise of good fortune
Kathryn Jacks' first two poems appeared in Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans, and she was recently published in Indiana University's Labyrinth magazine. She published her first novel, Shadows Embrace, in 2010, and is currently going to Indiana University for a degree in English with a concentration in creative writing.
