I wrote the poem below, previously published in a local community newsletter, a few years ago, before COVID. It has a poignant feel for me now, looking back across the summers since then, as the city has slowly made its way through a stop-and-start recovery and reopening.
I’ve never really liked hot weather in general, and I’ve always found New York summers in particular to be unbearably hot, humid, and stultifyingly wearying. But I spent a few decades in this town – more or less my late twenties to my late forties – trying to learn to love the summer, and at this point I guess I could say that, if I still have not truly learned to love it, I have at the very least learned to appreciate it.
After Solstice is a kind of a collected memory of my New York summers, layered with all the ambivalence I feel toward what I love and hate about the city.
(The title of the poem refers to the curious fact that the solstice, as the start of summer, marks the longest day, and yet the fullness of summer’s heat unfolds only in the shortening days thereafter.)
After Solstice Once again the golden season Shorter days and stronger heat Picnics, parks, and hydrants opened, Summer’s here. Ladybugs and dragonflies flitter Crickets rival old John Cage Fireflies teach ballet aspirants, Summer’s here. Too much light, too much confusion Heat’s an anvil, air’s a sponge Street trees' shade, a moment’s respite, Summer’s here. Mosquitoes sting and sunlight simmers Traffic sulks and tempers fray Subways stifle, tourists grumble - Summer’s here!
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