Introduction by Ted Kooser: A poem whose subject needs no introduction! Melissa Balmain lives in New York State, and her most recent book is Walking in on People, from Able Muse Press.

Nightmare

Your TV cable’s on the fritz.

Your Xbox is corroded.

Your iPod sits in useless bits.

Your Game Boy just imploded.

Your cell phone? Static’s off the scale.

Your land line? Disconnected.

You’ve got no mail—E, junk or snail.

Your hard drive is infected.

So here you idle, dumb and blue,

with children, spouse and mother—

and wish you knew what people do

to entertain each other.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2014 by Melissa Balmain, “Nightmare,” from Walking in on People, (Able Muse Press, 2014). Poem reprinted by permission of Melissa Balmain and Able Muse Press. Introduction copyright ©2015 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

No matter how old you are, every summer needs a little bit of silliness, don’t you think? Back in May, I shared photos that my cat might have posted if she had an Instagram account. Well, it’s a Friday in August (need I say more?) and I’ve had a busy week, so today I’ll turn the blog over to Tank and his (imaginary) Instagram account:

Happy Friday!

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

—John Lubbock, The Use of Life

It’s been raining here for what feels like forever, but is really only about two weeks. But still. This is the Sunshine State, not the I-Haven’t-Seen-the-Sun-in-Days State. Everything is wet. Fortunately, we have no flooding in my neighborhood, but there are streets closed in Tampa and elsewhere because of the rising water. All I want to do is curl up under a blanket and read or watch a movie (and snack)—I have to force myself to get my work done. I miss the sunshine, and the energy I get from it.

And to make things worse, my iTunes shuffle has been playing rain-related songs this morning! It started with Neil Sedaka’s “Laughter in the Rain,” and moved on to Sara Bareilles’ “Let the Rain.” So out of curiosity I checked my song list to see what other songs I had that were related to rain. I came up with “It’s Raining Men,” by The Weather Girls, “Here Comes the Rain” (The Mavericks), “Here Comes the Rain Again” (Eurythmics), and “Africa”—as in “I miss the rains down in…” (Toto). On a brighter note, I also have “Here Comes the Sun”  (The Beatles), and “Chasing the Sun,” (Sara Bareilles again). Should I make a playlist?

If I wanted to, I could download and add the following rainy songs:

“Singin’ in the Rain,” Gene Kelly

“Rainy Days and Mondays,” The Carpenters

“Who’ll Stop the Rain,” and “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” Creedence Clearwater Revival

“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” B.J. Thomas

“It’s Raining Again,” Supertramp

“Fire and Rain,” James Taylor

“Bring on the Rain,” JoDee Messina and Tim McGraw

But I don’t think I will. I’ve had about enough of the rain, and I want to keep music the simple pleasure that it is.

I hope your Monday is sunnier than mine.

Summer Downpour on Campus

When clouds turn heavy, rich

and mottled as an oyster bed,

when the temperature drops so fast

that fog conjures itself inside the cars,

as if the parking lots were filled

with row upon row of lovers,

when my umbrella veils my face

and threatens to reverse itself

at every gust of wind, and rain

lashes my legs and the hem of my skirt,

but I am walking to meet a man

who’ll buy me coffee and kiss my fingers—

what can be more beautiful, then,

than these boys sprinting through the storm,

laughing, shouldering the rain aside,

running to their dorms, perhaps to class,

carrying, like torches, their useless shoes?

Reprinted from “The Louisville Review,” (No. 59, Spring 2006) by permission of the author. Copyright © 2006 by Juliana Gray, whose most recent book of poetry is “The Man Under My Skin,” River City Publishing, 2005. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.