A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Munseetown

At the seventh hour when the children rise
(The river has risen) they go about bagging
Tons for the feast; as they blitzen and donder
She turns from the window and curses in thunder.
Her rage is their wonder.
At four o’clock daylight, December’s fagging
Middle begins as the buses are hooting;
Teachers go mad sending stragglers
Bum-busting in slick spots with all the wrong boots on,
Gravelling snowballs, peeing their leggings
(Herod was right); the guard growing haggard
Lance with their pennants, scream at the crosswalk
Where children do Pickwicks, aware of no loss
(But stare at the river where they are dragging).
The bridge reelsthe sun fallsthey are dragging
The river
She counts as the children home, checking for misses,
Greets them uncommonly kind with her kisses.
Thank God for Friday, says Miss Firstyear departing,
Pomanders in purse: Be careful, ta ta.
The enemy pounds where the sedges are thawing:
Fishers in hip-boots rapt in their art
Are blind to the children flinging in air
A deluge of ribbonstinselpopcorn ballscookie
bitesfat santastissuesangel hair
Look, look!
The fishers laugh: What the hell? Where? ….
Somehow ashamed there they flounder and start,
Hunching their shoulders to hide their own chortle.
Their business is certain. They cannot forgive it.
They are dragging the river.

Editor’s note: This is the first of several poems from Thomas Thornburg’s Munseetown, collecting poetry from the 1970’s and ’80’s. These are sometimes hard-hitting pieces, often based on a local occurence, as is, I believe, the current poem. Do enjoy and do read aloud.