We’ve been having some very warm days lately, which brings to mind a few heat-related poems. This verse is my latest exercise in “finding” a new poem; I’ve derived it from Archibald Lampman’s HEAT and included his verse below mine. I’m still learning, so if you have any insights on writing found poetry, please feel free to share them in a comment below.

SUMMER  STILLNESS

from plains southward
the road beyond,
upward melts into the glare
nearer the summit
a hay-cart moving,
the wagoner slouching
half-hidden in the blur
of white dust

from sky to sky
the heat-held land
beyond me in the fields
the grass, the marguerites,
the buttercups are still,
on the brook not a breath
disturbs spider or midge

where far elm shadows
patch the burning grass
the cows, with peaceful cud,
lie waiting in the depth
from the slope nearby
a thrush’s thin tune
cricket, grasshoppers
spin small sounds in my ear 

the burning sky-line
blinds my eyes,
the woods far off blue,
hills drenched in light
in the shadow of my hat
I lean at rest -- I think
some blessed power
has brought me
wandering here
in the furnace of this hour

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heat
by Archibald Lampman

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart’s side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dream, I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze;
The burning sky-line blinds my sight;
The woods far off are blue with haze;
The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet:
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessed power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.