Live Encounters Poetry & Writing September 2026
The Art of Falling, poems by DeWitt Clinton.
The Art of Falling
After Elizabeth Bishop
Isn’t hard to master as most don’t even know
What’ s going on as it’s true, or perhaps
For few, some I’m told, have no recollection,
And why would anyone want to remember
What just went down as that’s you down there,
Semi-conscious for some, for others, simply
Bamboozled how one can be there, and now
Here, lying down like that, and of course
Stunned like all of us, but the tragedy is that
Some end up in a room with crazy bright
Lights as if to see if anything there can be
Repaired and yes orthopods see this all the
Time, year in, year out, until even they feel
The trembling as some like to call it, though
No one really says that at the moment one
Descends, just like that, even Icarus all
Wax-winged found his dilemma odd very
Odd as why is he melting though that’ s
What all the artists and painters are wonder-
Ing about as well, the big Why question.
But do remember Peter Bruegel the Elder’s
Old masterpiece, then all the other master
Pieces then all the poems we almost swoon
Over and who doesn’t remember Old Auden’s
Masterpiece, “Musee des Beaux Arts” from
A while back, but who really is interested
These days, as so many keep falling these
Days, oddly, just like
That.
Especially Here
After “Winter,” by Jorge Galan, trans., Janet Hendrickson
There, just now, more than anyone can count,
Yellow leaves, all floating, not at all in sync,
Heavens no, all twirling in descent, different
Aerial twists, not at all like a parachutist on
The way back to earth, but the day is quite
Ripe, for this of course, as in an hour and a
Few minutes, we’ll reach the first seconds
Of our equinox, and of course, at last, to the
South, ripe smells of spring, though up here,
It’s still hot, and muggy, waiting for frost.
The sky is certainly, of course, up there,
But we’re so confounded to know exactly
Where, and that’s what keeps us up, but
For others, just say up there, but don’t
Ever ask, exactly where, as we don’t
Have time to ask about the time, always
Ticking mercilessly ticking, but nothing
Like those grandfather clocks tick tick
Ticking so loudly, even Hitchcock would
Have gone mad, wouldn’t you, and why
Not, what, por favor, is so in your tiny
Brain that’s not in our constant ticking?
Thankfully, I’m not a shut-in even if I’m
Shut in for now, but not for long as
I’m off to the park where there is no
Ticky, unless of course, and you know,
Don’t you, what the of course is.
The sea, well, someone else would say
Yes, an inland sea, but there are four
Others, all connecting, amazingly
Through what captains might call a
Waterway, but that’s not exactly
Right, is it? No neighing of neighbors
Even if it will take us a whole hour
Or more to find even an Appaloosa,
Or even an old grey mare, just standing
Beneath the only old Oak, out there.
The breeze, of course, that pulls the
Yellowy leaves off the tendrils like
That, and even now it’s raining yellow
Yellow. The crows are minding their
Own business, not even tapping the
Downed leaves for bugs or worse,
Something even lower than the bugs.
Actually, it’s quite quiet now, almost
Impossible to hear those soft landings
Of what you should know by now.
But for most, it really doesn’t matter,
Does it? But then a nanny in tow
With small giggly little ones, does
Not see, or care, what any of this
Might mean, and for most, say it
Simply, nothing, nothing at all
Is oblivious to the splendor of
This morning. We could live like
This forever but who in some god’s
Name would want that? Just picture
An Amtrak pulling up to our house
Just like that. Whole leaves are
Tumbling so softly, carelessly, almost,
and who could count them all?
The chances for survival are not
Infinitesimal, if that’s the proper
Word and words with that many
Syllables nearly always tie up
So many tongues, but tonight
Here, we’ll all see, before the
Light goes out a soft yellow green
That might bring a softness to
Us all which we all need so much
Of, especially now, especially here.
Astute, As If Something is Coming, This Late
Here we are, so very glad, we are still
breathing, but not like everything, leaving
imprints as a record on all the shelves
of what some like to call our planet,
others, Earth. Though all the green
everywhere is still in deep green
everywhere, though we know how
easy it will turn, just barely, undetectable,
most will not see the turning, the paler
color just before we’re chilled, slightly,
for here we’re in the northern parts
where our seasons are slowly shorter,
less summery, wetter, even colder
but nothing quite like what we know
will be a much more serious cold, but
for now, we have such warm winds,
and for now, the stars will not plow
into our thin skins, and then, as we
predicted, and not all at once some
say, we’re almost drowning, especially
if we live on the plains known for floods,
yet sometimes, before the rains, a quick
chill and suddenly the ground is popping
with pellets of ice, and still, in wonder
we know, certainly, it’s the first day so
hot, so steamy, so unpleasantly August.
© DeWitt Clinton
DeWitt Clinton taught English, Creative Writing, and World of Ideas courses for over 30 years at the University of Wisconsin—Whitewater. Recent book collections include At the End of the War (Kelsay Books, 2018), By A Lake Near A Moon: Fishing with the Chinese Masters (Is A Rose Press, 2020), and Hello There (Word Poetry, 2021) which was awarded the 2022 Edna Meudt Poetry Book Award from the Council for Wisconsin Writers. His newest book of poems is When & If (Kelsay Books, 2025). He is a student of Iyengar Yoga and offers a gentle chair yoga class to seniors in the Milwaukee Public Library System, and the Village of Shorewood Senior Center.