Poetry by Eric Colburn

    Kumweni CC




My brother, dead at thirty-three

Sometimes I blame psychiatry.
The meds: his mind made dull and flat,
His body swollen with its fat.

Or I could blame society:
None of his traumas were his fault.
He broke his leg. He witnessed shots
One time. Another night, some cops
Beat him, then charged him with assault.

Sometimes I blame myself. He should
Have come and lived with me… If I
Had spent more time with him…  And why…

My brother would just let it go.
He loved loud music, sweet fried food.
Bad movies. Grunge. Taking it slow.





Night Vision

The ridgeline’s sharp across the valley—dark
Sky, but much darker hills, a perfect line
Of dark, without a single light. The stark
Line must be something like the sight, sublime
And common, people saw ten thousand years
Ago, when we were part of nature, not
Apart from it. The thought invites, not fear,
But awe, fear’s older, wiser kin. A lot
Of what we think we know is just 
Fleeting, invented for a momentary whim,
When what we need is deeper, darker. In
This bowl of dark within the ridgeline’s rim,
Coyote howls express a human sense of sin,
And stars above seem ancient human dust.





Summer song 

Kayaks
slide
by
fast.
Why ask
why?
Abide.
Relax.
The season’s
got reasons.
Namely:
That tree;
my daughter;
this water.




Eric Colburn’s poetry has been published in The Literary Review, Appalachia, Blue Unicorn, The Orchards, THINK Journal, and other places. He holds a Bachelor of Science degree from MIT and lives with his family in Cambridge, MA, where he rides his bicycle everywhere.