Fire Watchman for Welders, As a Beginning Technical Theater Student

The Arc is blue—it dazzles,

but looking at it burns retinas.

So I stare at the two-by-fours, blue by reflection, but less brilliant.

As Lot’s Wife, I long to see the glow, the glamour, the awe-full radiance.

But I close my eyes, not a grain of salt sighted.

Fiery sparks sky-rocket and fall lamely—

the misted stage precaution pointless.

But still I stand, and euthanize the flickers.

I guess I do what I’m told.

I wrote this poem in my junior year in college and it won me second place under poetry in our Pre-Professional Writing Conference. Granted, I'm pretty certain my poetry professor was the only judge. So feel free to take that hoopla with a grain of salt.

The handy-woman in the picture is me as a beginning technical theater student. Unfortunately, I'm not welding in this picture—I'm grinding. But with the sparks, the gear, and the time period, I thought the picture deserved to be here. Working with the welders during this depicted semester was, obviously, the inspiration for my salty, award-winning poem.