Poems

Clouds Gregory Djanikian
It was a test on clouds, Science I, Seventh grade, Mrs. Snyder, who, I remember, always wore dark colors. My fingers trembled, I couldn't keep A point on my pencil, and in the next row, John Carlson was getting all the answers. Cumulus, altostratus, cirrus. What was I dreaming of? Clouds. They reminded me of Iowa or Kansas, Or my notion of them, expanses of wheat, Big skies somewhere west of where I was, Somewhere with rural addresses, dogs Named "Blue" or "Jake," and railroad crossings, And a boy's river lazing through farm and pasture. Cirrus fibratus, cirrus uncinus, Altocumulus, cumulus congestus I was losing time, my answer sheet Was white as a cloud, and there was A scratching of pencils on paper. What was I after? Summer. A hillside. A cumulus sky driven by the breezes. Kites, and kite string humming in the air. Shouts, laughter, in the distance only. Cumulus humilis, cumulus fractus Time was up and we were let go And I reeled out to the playground lightened. There was the bluest sky and I saw Fibrous wisps converging into grey. "Cirrus spissatus," John Carlson announced From behind me, maybe to himself, And skipped away at ease with the world. All the way home, I spat out those names I'd learned one by one, cirrostratus nebulosus, Altocumulus undulatus, cirrocumulus, cumulonimbus, Until I was left with just "clouds," Something vague and inexact, but prevailing, Like some notion of happiness, Or longings without name.
I think it is wonderful feelings, ‘longings without name’.
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