Wednesday, April 9, 2008

New Poem


Of the river made to run between patios and porch lights,
the green-glazed stillness dark and smooth as grass
cut so low the wind cannot move it—

The house of young, hard, blue, vinyl-sided wood
yielding its day-long mandala to dark sky and water
in congruencies, symmetries, angles of repose—

Pointing the sky a passing through sure as resurrection—

Quick as thunder and bright as noon,
setting its bobber and waiting for the thing to dance—

Ecstasy, this moment when the arrival of night
assembles the day’s last colors
like spices hung in the air between kitchens,

synchronous recipes that will never repeat—

Not exactly. And to love. To think there is no potential
to flame the bit of wick not yet sunk in wax—

The world is wax—

The world is twined rope
igniting what it cannot wear through—

The summer dusk full of tangerines and hay—

The kernel closing
around itself the sour cloud of survival
in the cold, damp, putrid soil—

Readying, among so much decay, its habitual blossoms—


Marcus said...

Well, I must confess that I had to look up "viduity" to discover that it is the quality of being a widow. With this knowledge, the poem becomes melancholy indeed.

But those habitual blossoms at the end are quite a nice sight to see.

Marcus said...

P.S. "Hark, this way a Stegner allusion comes!" :) I like how it fits in.

KATE EVANS said...

I find in the "habitual blossoms" a kind of weariness--the beauty comes, and then?

Makes me think of Edna St. Vincent Millay--spring, a babbling idiot (although your poem is richer, more complex. It's gorgeous & moving. Thank you.

I just realized you have more poetry at links on the right. I will read some now. (And I see you have one at DMQ Review; a few years back, I was an editor there.)