poetry

you know how

Standard

You Know How
–Ellen Hopkins

Sometimes you hear a whisper
fall over your shoulder,
but then you turn to search

for the source, find nothing
but landscape behind you?

So then you tell yourself
it was just a case of hyperactive
imagination, convince

yourself that sentiments
don’t materialize out of thin air.

But the truth, at least as I like
to tell it, is that the voices
who speak to you from inside

your head have taken up
permanent residence there.

Some shout warnings, prodding
you to take cover, flee,
or brandish a weapon.

Others murmur, haunting
you with poetry.

Like me.

Photo by Jarek Jordan on Unsplash

the métier of blossoming

Standard

The Métier of Blossoming
–Denise Levertov

Fully occupied with growing—that’s
the amaryllis. Growing especially
at night: it would take
only a bit more patience than I’ve got
to sit keeping watch with it till daylight;
the naked eye could register every hour’s
increase in height. Like a child against a barn door,
proudly topping each year’s achievement,
steadily up
goes each green stem, smooth, matte,
traces of reddish purple at the base, and almost
imperceptible vertical ridges
running the length of them:
Two robust stems from each bulb,
sometimes with sturdy leaves for company,
elegant sweeps of blade with rounded points.
Aloft, the gravid buds, shiny with fullness.

One morning—and so soon!—the first flower
has opened when you wake. Or you catch it poised
in a single, brief
moment of hesitation.
Next day, another,
shy at first like a foal,
even a third, a fourth,
carried triumphantly at the summit
of those strong columns, and each
a Juno, calm in brilliance,
a maiden giantess in modest splendor.
If humans could be
that intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried,
swift from sheer
unswerving impetus! If we could blossom
out of ourselves, giving
nothing imperfect, withholding nothing!

Photo by Andrea Boudrias on Unsplash

myth

Standard

Myth
–Natasha Trethewey

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,
the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking
you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.
*
Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.
But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in—still, trying—
I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.

 

when my time comes

Standard

When My Time Comes
–Wanda Coleman

Photo by Cullan Smith on Unsplash

glimpse

Standard

Glimpse

–Amy Gerstler

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

face of the bee

Standard

Face of the Bee
–Henri Cole

 

 

/ˈməT͟Hər/

Standard

/ˈməT͟Hər/

–Tiana Nobile

We tend to our roles like we tend to a fire,
poking the coals with the blazing tip of an iron.

The head of a woman occasionally produces more heads.
The body of a woman is the source of all our breaths.

See Also: The naming of riverbanks.
See Also: Nature’s tendency to cleave.

There is a difference between the qualities
we inherit and the qualities of instinct.

The brain with its many folds looks like it’s squeezing itself.
Its mouths are puckered and waiting to be unlocked with a kiss.

An organ of the body is regarded as the source
of nourishment for the next corresponding organ.

How we feed on each other for ourselves.
How we keep ourselves alive through each other.

You are the living tissue beneath the bark of a cork oak.
You are a ship grained with the grooves of trees.

Photo by Hayden Scott on Unsplash

 

late poems

Standard

Late Poems
–Margaret Atwood

These are the late poems.
Most poems are late
of course: too late,
like a letter sent by a sailor
that arrives after he’s drowned.
Too late to be of help, such letters,
and late poems are similar.
They arrive as if through water.
Whatever it was has happened:
the battle, the sunny day, the moonlit
slipping into lust, the farewell kiss. The poem
washes ashore like a flotsam.

Or late, as in late for supper:
all the words cold or eaten.
Scoundrel, plight, and vanquished,
or linger, bide, awhile,
forsaken, wept, forlorn.
Love and joy, even: thrice-gnawed songs.
Rusted spells. Worn choruses.

It’s late, it’s very late;
too late for dancing
Still, sing what you can.
Turn up the light: sing on,
sing: On.

Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

origins of violence

Standard

Origins of Violence
–Jenny George

There is a hole.
In the hole is everything
people will do
to each other.
The hole goes down and down.
It has many rooms
like graves and like graves
they are all connected.
Roots hang from the dirt
in craggy chandeliers.
It’s not clear
where the hole stops
beginning and where
it starts to end.
It’s warm and dark down there.
The passages multiply.
There are ballrooms.
There are dead ends.
The air smells of iron and
crushed flowers.
People will do anything.
They will cut the hands off children.
Children will do anything—
In the hole is everything.

Photo by Ian Yeo on Unsplash

homestead revisited

Standard

Homestead Revisited
–J.A. Jance
A windswept house on barren lava flow
Surveys the desert floor for miles around.
To this unlikely spot whose beauty none but we
Could well discern, we brought our new-made vows
And love.

We were each other’s all in all.
It was enough, at least at first.
Then small erosions came
To sweep us from our perch.
The house still stands. Only we
Are gone.

Photo by Jiaying on Unsplash