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About this Poem 

“I wrote this poem last summer which was spent mostly getting myself into trouble and listening to country music on my record player. So, I guess this is a little love poem that celebrates the laziness of the summer season and the remarkable beauty of everyday life that much of country music can convey so well.  In addition, I think this poem is also a gentle critique of poetic ambition.”

—Sandra Simonds

Ode to Country Music

If I wasn't such a deadbeat, I'd learn Greek.
    I wouldn't write sonnets; I'd write epics
and odes. I'd love a man who was
    acceptable and conformed to every code.
I'd put together my desk and write my epic or ode
    at sunset over my suburb. How I would love my shrubs!
But all I do is listen to country (and the occasional Joni)
    and smoke. Judge me judge me
judge me. Oh I've been through the shallows.
    I shallow. I hope. I hole. I know
I wrote you the most brutal love poem that knows.

Copyright @ 2014 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on August 19, 2014.

Copyright @ 2014 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on August 19, 2014.

Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds is the author of Steal It Back (Saturnalia Books, 2015) and Mother Was a Tragic Girl (Cleveland State University Press, 2012). She teaches at Thomas University and lives in Tallahassee, Florida. 

by this poet

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Vision of Baudelaire        in this North Florida forest      looking into the eye
of a lizard with green         purple eyeliner zigzagging its way up a burnt log

Florida Yew, Olive, neon orange        day moon mushrooms
over the white

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with the medicinal poppies of June
nor with Celan's bloom-fest of dredged stone,
      not with history's choo-choo train of corpses,
    not with Nottingham's Robin Hood
            nor Antwerp's Diamondland.

Not walking on the Strand in Manhattan Beach with her
       silicone

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I’m a witch who lost all her powers, then
   in place of my powers, I got the coiled beauty
of seashells and sleeping infants. The coiled
beauty of eardrums, and the sound wave
of bells. The bells! This is the country of clouds.
       The molten body, the Floridian pinks,
       and

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