Read a nice piece by Dan Berry in Sunday’s New York Times chronicling what it’s like to run the Boston Marathon, juxtaposing the joy and exuberance with the darkness of last Monday’s events. Inspired me to make a found poem out of it. A found poem is basically taking someone else’s writing and editing/arranging and adding other touches to make it into a poem. Again, his words, not mine, but still, I feel like something nice came out of it. Here’s the poem:
Before the gradual, winding descent
down heartbreak hill,
past thousands of cheering spectators
along Commonwealth Avenue,
into this singular city,
the just-blossoming magnolia trees
formed pink-and-white garlands
and a block of Main Street determination
stretched past the Town Common.
The undulating human waves
moved down an inviting incline,
past the Lovely Lady Salon, the Tasty Treat,
the Virgin Mary lawn statue, the Marathon deli.
The given day too perfect to believe.
The starter’s pistol the first blast,
But not the last.