November 2005
Two poems By Erin Morris
Listen to "Umbilical Poem" mp3  (requires audio plugin)
Umbilical Poem
Doing the same quiet things.
Bored rain at window –
Sometimes life is a drizzle.
Mom explained this once
But her voice moved so slow
I stopped hearing.
3 in the afternoon –
the sky's lights are out,
it's giving off water instead.
At the hospital you too
are turning your eyes from artificial halogens
to a calm grey square of window.
But this I do not know:
Are you thinking of yourself again,
or me?
I'm considering doing the dishes to surprise you.
(Then I dream I'm in heaven,
that it always rains there,
I sit in unlit quiet
and the rain is silver and sparkling,
it cuts rivulets in me
until I'm so sparse,
I too am a perfect strand of rain)
So you see I can;t do dishes right now,
I am completely magical
and you're probably thinking about
bone and scalpel.
When it rains the animals burrow
into deep warm pockets of earth,
dark soil wombs,
their flesh heats the dirt –
we're so strange,
in our fluorescence,
our crafts of light.
Mom, I was once very dark inside you.
Nicholas, when you come home
the dishes will still be dirty,
the lights will be off
and I'll be wrapped in blankets like a 6 yr old,
sitting on the floor by the window,
chin on the sill
and eyes half-closed,
watching the great calm grey.
Come under the blanket with me
and whisper.
December
Listen to "December" mp3 (requires audio plugin)
The two cloud leopard cubs must find
mates soon, in the zoo in Taiwan.
They are already five months old
and by six months the big males
are known to maul and sometimes eat
the smaller females.
You must get them together at a young age,
when they are the same size, so they can
grow up together in the bamboo play structure.
Nothing is perfect for captivity.
We keep trying to make me tame
but eager as I am to please
I cry and yell at you almost every day this month.
I can;t help it, it's winter outside
and I have no good boots,
am growing rangy and desperate in here.
You even painted the bedroom lime green,
we light candles to simulate the fire of the sun,
but I am moping in a corner,
off my feed and growling
when you near.
You were already too old when we were put together
in this house. I must get into the grass soon,
I must be touched by light and find either
a fit young creature to play with or the
deep lap of a thick green tree.
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Avery Hopwood (from the painting by Florine Stettheimer)
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Hopwood Poetry Award winner Erin Morris is a senior majoring in Latin. A native Ann Arborite, she's been writing poetry for eight years. Morris says Ken Mikolowski, a lecturer in English in the U-M Residential College, is not only her poetry teacher but also "my hero."
Beginning with the winter term of 2006, the University of Michigan will observe the 75th Anniversary of the Avery Hopwood and Jule Hopwood Awards. The Hopwood awards for student writing are the legacy of Avery Hopwood, class of 2005. In recognition of the Hopwood bequest and its legacy, the anniversary will take the form of an ongoing celebration including no fewer than 12 separate events scheduled during the term and beyond, all open to the public. For a complete schedule, please visit: The Hopwood 75th Anniversary Celebration Calendar of Events
Michigan Today Poetry Archive >
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