Poetry for Lynette Pohlman

Athena on Campus

By Michael Carey

For Lynette Pohlman

At Iowa State University

there is  a museum made of air.

You can breathe it --

outside then in;

inside then out.

What is life but a poem

you walk around in?

See that Indian struggling

across the commons,

carrying his hungry

wife and screaming child,

see the cold cows

stretching their necks

through a cement wall

to drink

the clear water

on the other side,

outside and inside

the dairy building.

So many different

points of view,

so many different

ways of being.

"Darling I love you,

I want you

on the molecular level,

the genetic level,

my head is spinning

like an electron,

my arms reaching out

to encircle yours

until we bind

and feel

what we

didn't feel before,

until we see

although our eyes

 are shuddered."

Who is this goddess

sprinkling us

with dust

we feign not to notice,

that we brush away

or take for granted

but that enchants us

nonetheless,

transforms us

without our being aware?

Art is not simply

something you can frame;

it's a building, it's clothes, it's a pond,

a fountain, a pool, music,

two shy stone-faced students

with large hands sitting

across from each other

by the doors of the library.

It's what you relate to and why.

Inside and outside.

It's the air you stir

and ruffle and change

while you're here

and after you leave.