Archive for September 2015

Thinking of the Picture of the Syrian Child, Drowned

September 5, 2015

Thinking of the Picture of the Syrian Child, Drowned

One knows instinctively what it is to carry
such a boy,
let’s say from a car
after a long trip’s drive,
the slumbering dangle
of the little lower legs
weighted by shoes that look almost as large
for his feet (fine as a chirping bird’s)
as his small child’s head
for his small child’s body,
the rims leaden
about the slim ankles–

Someone strapped them on
so carefully, bending down
before the boy,
someone wanting to keep those shoes
from getting lost, someone wanting to keep
the boy’s feet warm, safe.

 

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Draft poem about the very sad story of the Syrian refugee family, capsized off the coast of Turkey; the photo of one of the drowned sons, Aylan Kurdi, age 3, has become very famous.  I am not posting a pic here.  This poem is still being revised; I am linking to The Bardo’s 100TPC event. 

 

(Not Completely) Befogged

September 4, 2015

(Not Completely) Befogged

My face, increasingly tired
of glasses, just lets the world meld
mornings, cabinets open
to doorways, hand touching wall
stairwells, sometimes mispouring
my tea, more than slapdash
when it comes to dishes,

seeking, when outside, mist
over water, cloud cover
impaled by mountain or just nestling
about the land–diffusions whose beauty seems magnified
by my blur,

which makes me wonder if that is not why
I more and more love you,
whose kindness hovers above
that movement you animate,
an aura not so much like cloud cover
as the shine on the bubbles of soap you quietly apply
to the dishes I’ve just done–

more light, in other words,
than fog–
not dissipating
by day, though come to think about it
you too nestle about me
as cold nights fall.

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A sentimental attempt at an atmospheric sort of poem for a prompt by the inimitable Hedgewitch (Joy Ann Jones, blogging at Verse Escape) on Real Toads.  (Hedgewitch’s prompt is much more complex than that, as it deals in tone in poetry, but this is where I landed.)  The photo is mine.  I am having a number of internet issues so may be slow returning comments, but will get there!  

 

What I Need to Tell Myself is This:

September 2, 2015

What I need to tell myself is this:

you live inside
a body;
and oh it wants to dance;
and oh it cramps;
(and sometimes feels nothing at all,
which is almost the worst.)
And you’d like to think the mind thinks it,
but it (also) (pretty much) thinks
the mind–

And where does the mind go
when it’s all ash?
(Goodbye body.)
And where does the body go
when it’s all smoke–never mind
no mirrors–
only our heated reflections
genuflecting the air,
the curves of the body
and all those waves of the brain barely wrinkling
earth’s brow–

And here I am, already asking questions
to take me away from what I’ve meant
to say–that I live inside a body
that dances and cramps and sometimes
feels nothing at all
(which is almost
the worst.)

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Another very drafty sort of poem.  I call them drafts when they are written and revised quickly and I don’t think they are done but am too impatient/indecisive/stymied to keep working on them.  Image is mine, made on the iPhone with the “Brushes” fingerpainting app.