Scrimshaw
Sonnet
I am a
woman only of earthenware
bare as windy
hills if not as pure.
Your
every thought to me bore the potter's mark
stark
from a god's-eye that's never yet met mine,
fine and
barb-hooked as if on a fishing line,
vined in words that pulled like hungry sand.
Bands of
ivory cloud meet a starving knife,
life drips enough to wet the driest grave.
Save the lesser light of windflower spring;
Save the lesser light of windflower spring;
bring
the lamps of your eyes imagining.
Sing
like sheaves of whales under blue-white wool.
Pull
from your sleeves the darkness between worlds
curled away in sighs, then suddenly spilled,
curled away in sighs, then suddenly spilled,
filled
to the brim before all things are stilled.
~January
2013
slightly revised. 2015
The Tuesday Platform
revisiting a poem written two years ago... this is in chained rhyme where the last word of every line rhymes with the first word of the next.
Process notes: This is deliberately written in a somewhat non-traditional sonnet form.
scrimshaw — n
1. the art of decorating or carving shells, ivory, etc, done by sailors as a leisure activity
1. the art of decorating or carving shells, ivory, etc, done by sailors as a leisure activity
~World Dictionary
Image credits:
Image credits:
Header image: The Rocks with Oak Tree, Vincent Van Gogh, 1888
Public domain, via wikipaintings.org
Footer image: scrimshaw is awesome, part II, by staveitoff on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons license.
