Two Poems by Jennifer Met

MEETING THE MAN IN THE MOON (BUZZ ALDRIN SPEAKS)

             “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.” –Neil Armstrong

             Armstrong insisted that he said “a,” and it was obscured by static.
             Buzz Aldrin followed Armstrong onto the moon’s surface nine minutes later.

Second really is the great
plot. To hold count, the only
solid thing upon obscure—

a considerable dark
where we found the unknown.
The massive face, the brooding eyes,

and a man—a man self-contained.
I heard “a” and I approve.
“A” said my friend, calling private

the present moment, endeavoring
to pioneer who goes in front.
For the country. I have

an intimate friend in the rugged
features of the night. I know him
and like him—no horizon at all

in the eyes, in his hush, dark face.
With fury, I’ll walk out—burst out.
Armstrong is a man of character.

I have talents more illustrious.
And now, here we are
in this inhospitable abandon.

Armstrong adapted our need—
for the night to be a home,
pale and stained with dust.

Satisfied, his need, to take
that half-view which was natural
out of the window, once a day.

But I do not care. Why, then,
make these long journeys?
To know man through strain.

And out of the question
of our own daily journey—
to give point to the round

“oo”. “a!” Could you not follow it?
This evening I overtook distance
until we were clear of the road

mortifying—in the alighted
walk where I halted fear
and hope did nothing more.

(Found poem created from Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Other Stories. San Diego: Cantebury Classics, 2011. Print. Pages 653-655.)
 
 
 
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TAKING FLIGHT (ORVILLE WRIGHT SPEAKS)

In my mind I set free. I rose and gravity could do nothing. Do you think you should not try? If you could facilitate the look into air? Imprisoned in America—color came upon her tresses, the road wore the copper setting sun. It duplicates a passage within clouded strength, a basketful of sky. I was a prisoner here, on the end of a long, light ladder. The ladder before a very fat and burly villain—the open sky. It is for me! I have caught air. Gone, the elderly roundhouse, worn to a shadow. Air—as true as all that remains.

(Found poem created from Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Other Stories. San Diego: Cantebury Classics, 2011. Print. Pages 334-337.)
 
 
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Jennifer Met lives in a small town in North Idaho. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a finalist for Nimrod‘s Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and winner of the Jovanovich Award. Recent work is published or forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Gravel, Gulf Stream, Harpur Palate, Juked, Nimrod, Sleet Magazine, Tinderbox, and Zone 3, among other journals. She is the author of the chapbook Gallery Withheld (Glass Poetry Press, 2017).