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News @ Minnesota State University Moorhead

Ron Frannea’s work is broadcast on KAXE radio

Posted on December 05, 2012

Ron Frannea, an adjunct faculty member teaching in the English Department, had his poem broadcast on the program, The Beat, on KAXE Radio (Brainerd and Grand Rapids).

Frannea submitted the reading of his poem, “At First Glance, It’s Always the Same One Who Drives Karman Ghias”, which was first published by Red Weather (1992) and reprinted in anthology form by What Matters (1997). Bob Schieffer, Information Technology, assisted in the recording.

You can listen to the reading at KAXE. The Beat regularly features a short poem by a Minnesota poet (published or not, well known or not).

Below is the poem in written form.

“At First Glance, It’s Always the Same One Who Drives Karman Ghias”

I see a Karman Ghia, and I see Judy driving, but just for a second. Then I see the beard and the bald head and the pipe and it isn’t Judy anymore. Rain.

The elements of weather are fun only when they want to be, but when she looks, they come running­––like nursing pups to their mother.

Her name is Judy. Don’t call her Judith. She won’t wait to hear the apology. Wind always seems to help her when she gets like that. See her eyes? No. A sense of emptiness sweeps around and around until you’re off kilter, and then she’s gone.

Thought I saw her in the Twin Cities, but my vision blurred with that wind. After my blink, just nothingness. Everywhere.

Now it changes to sleet and I can’t stand to look up, so I watch the cracked concrete slide by. Everything is to scale. Might as well be the yellow double line on Minnesota 34 that takes me to Height-of-Land Lake. It was hot that summer we went together. The top was down and my neck got red. Too busy laughing to notice, I guess. But she noticed.

I still think about her, especially when the snow in front of me is clean, untouched. I hesitate to take that step, but I know that I can do nothing but goad myself onward. The huge white pines are starting to rustle, and I momentarily see her on the wind––then it gets still again. I left the kitchen light on. It’s nice to have something to come home to.

by Ron Frannea

published by Red Weather 1992

reprinted in anthology form by What Matters 1997


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