Monday, April 30, 2012
in the end--
it is a river.
Why else are we
patterned in cycles?
the you and I
joined together in heat
and in coolness.
in the beginning--
a pool was formed
Thursday, April 19, 2012
This blog has spent a short winter hibernating, but even in my absence, I have been thinking regularly about Susan's prompt from January; to re-read favorite poems and ponder on what makes the poem compelling. After rereading dozens of contenders I returned again to Emily, and to the poem that spawned this blog:
|THE LEAVES, like women, interchange|
|Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of|
|The parties in both cases||5|
What is it about this poem, and much of Emily's work that moves me so much to write poetry?
I love how this poem reads like an exhale, picks itself up in the middle of a conversation, as if to answer some question, or to interrupt an already flowing conversation with an abrupt observation. Poetry, to me, is a way to answer the questions that we can't even form the words to ask. As another favorite of mine, Robert Hass, wrote, "a word is elegy to what it signifies." In this way, poems are elegies to abstract observations, to what the heart feels but cannot say. This is why I love poems that pick up in the middle of an idea, or thought.
Maybe this can be our new challenge then - to answer an unspoken question with our next poems.
Happy spring, and happy writing!
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
I will not write about home.
You can never go back, that much
is well documented.
Here are the things I can return:
1 T-shirt, too tight around the middle
3 Spiral notebooks, poorly bound
1 Textbook, for a class not taken
One can give back what is useless, or broken.
One can lay claim to something new.
The former cannot re-emerge as the latter.
One can return, but not return to.
There are no stories in objects untouched,
spaces uninhabited, clothes as yet uncreased.
The old stories are gone.
They are in that home, whose doors are locked.
This emptiness is yours to fill –
Friday, January 13, 2012
turn into yourself.
As an archaeologist
carefully brushes years
of dust aside
to uncover the pieces
of symbols of life
I parse my way
through odd things;
seeking some fundamental truth--
only to find that the heart
of the substance
is the dust.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
A many happy returns to you!
Monday, November 28, 2011
With your hands, pull together
this shaggy dough,
marbled with sweet butter,
smooth as the skin
across his shoulders, and also
freckled, with cinnamon and salt.
Apples for sweetness –
slice them thinly,
mound them up and tuck them in.
There will be too many to fit,
eat one with honey,
lick your fingers clean.
Play the serpent.
Kiss his lips and let him taste
the nectar on your tongue.
The air is heavy,
perfumed, sweet and spicy.
Realize, you are naked.
Eat your fill.