Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Two Poems

I have been behind since April 1 on my purely voluntary and self-imposed goal of writing a poem a day in April for National Poetry Month,  but this is the day I catch up, posting two short poems that visited me yesterday afternoon after a hectic day, while sitting bemused in a daze drinking tea. I love those kind.



Iris Throat


Batik Ghosts of Spring

Tied dyed iris, chrysoberyl
 speckled mauve
and palest pink, has not
become the rich purple brown and
bruised gold of its cameo’d face
nor grown its startling beard orange
because the soil I build them with
 is wrong; the taste
of alkali and dusty dinosaur bone
bleaches them pale as newborn spirits,
heads floating ghostly above
their corporal vase
soft beacons
while outside the blood black kale
throws its sulphur bouquet
wild wild into the prairie wind,
 laughing to be flower bride instead of
dinner, teasing the gnats
that feed the bluebird.


April 2012



~*~


mystery eggshells



Unspoken


The words I still have
are barely holding together
their delicate shells cracked
their bones broken
marrow sucked and chicks
destined never to fly
empty rattles good
only for
making
noise.

Come closer
closer
here
where lips are warm
and not for talking
and there are things
needed
that
words can’t do


April 2012

god bless the daylight, the sugary smell of springtime









Image for Batik Ghosts of Spring: Iris Throat, by discutant, on flick'r
Images for Unspoken: mystery eggshells, by weshook, on flick'r
god bless the daylight, by sevenworlds16, on flickr
All shared under a Creative Commons License

10 comments:

  1. Unspoken...your genius of words...oops, I guess I said it. :)

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  2. Hedge, "Unspoken" gave me chills. "there are things needed that words can't do." Just lovely!

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  3. woohoo...i really like the second hedge...and esp the second half of it....because there is a time where words end and...

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  4. Agh! Lost comment on iPad.

    Best kind of poems. Unspoken is very poignant with the cracked shells transmuting to silent rattle, but the flower poem is also beautiful. Perhaps a little more fixed in the prarie, so harder for those less plant oriented. It really reminded me of my grandmother's garden in Minnesota though. Both great poems. You more than caught up. I'm on schedule but truly did a prose piece that I am just calling a poem. K

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  5. Ahhhh...

    The gorgeous complexity of that iris (wow), and felt in the complexity of your language. Love it. And the fragile shell of verse that you upturn into warm lips good for stuff other than words, ah man, I'm feeling it.

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  6. Both of these are stunning. I tend to favor the first, but that's probably because I know just exactly what you mean!

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  7. Wow, both of these are just wow. It may sound cheesy, but I actually got delightful little shivers from the first one and goosebumps by the end of the second one.

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  8. Nothing teaches humility better than gardening, to know how awkward and tiny my efforts are to husband what blooms so gorgeously due to sun and rain and soil. (The only thing more potent is mouthing a gorge of road rage at a car ahead of me that promply turns into the parking lot of the AA meeting I'm also headed to -- whoops.) Just trying to name the complex folds and phosphor of that iris is daunting enough (you reach way back into the spice cabinet of your kitchen to find the jar labeled "tied dyed iris, chrysoberyl speckled mauve and palest pink"), but then to actually raise one from the protean garden, well, whaddyagonnado but let the garden do its own rioting (loved those kale blooms), and delight in the disorderings ... In the second, the humility is more plush, simply asserting that boots are made for walking, and lips much more than for talking, as if to say, kissing is to talking what flying is to falling. Amen. - Brendan

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  9. Oh, Witch. I like the first one, but the second, oh the second one...

    I was surprised by my own sudden tears. The poem went straight past my defenses and my brain, and nipped my heart. The picture at the bottom, of the pink flowers, was complicit in my undoing. On an emotional level, this might be my favorite poem of yours that I have ever read.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg