Posts Tagged poems
One of my writing friends polled those of us in our writing group about a piece she’d found on her computer. She didn’t think she’d written it, but none of us claimed it, either. Coming across published pieces you’d forgotten about is equally disconcerting. I’d completely forgotten about this particular piece which was published in Poetic Justice.
Dream with me…
we will meet
in winnowing moonrays
silent as distant suns.
You place your fingers on my cheek,
small cool touch,
needlepoint of starlight.
Your eyes like cloudless nights,
into endless dreams
I did remember this next one since I often think of it when I’m picking berries. It was published in another little journal, The Yellow Butterfly.
Stooping among brambles
I envision you holding women
for I know there have been many.
With each searing thorn
I wonder if you pause,
your first you said
and love you said
and like a bitter berry
curse the men
who’ve held me since.
(photo credit: Kathyrn Taylor, Feb 2014. Used with permission.)
Today I was talking to my best friend from high school about a trip we took to Watkins Glen and Corning Glass Museum. There were six of us on that trip, plus her mother who was driving. My friend, Hannah, didn’t remember the details. I remember we were exchanging AFS students. I’d just hosted a Japanese girl for a week and it seems that we were picking up my classmate and potential AFS student, Dan Lloyd. But who the other exchangees were, I neither of us remember. Possibly I have those details wrong.
Later this morning I had a nice chat about writing, publishing, books, and characters with my hair stylist. In an hour my writing group is meeting. All in all, a day full of books, writing, and words.
I believe this was my first published poem, in the journal Voices International. It was inspired by the trip to Corning and someone else along on that trip.
In the Glassworks
Row on shimmering row of bottles
stood silent, glazed guard
while I dared not breathe
amidst the burnished vials and goblets.
Glintily he shadowed me,
shattering the fragile world around us
into multi-colored shards.
And I could feel the glass melt,
sense the heat
from the glass-blower’s torch,
and I could hear wind chimes
as from behind he sighed in my hair.
And in the dancing prism lights
voice thin as spun glass
and no one heard,
no one was witness
but the row on glimmering row of bottles.
We were speaking of dreams the other day and since I’d written about my “best” publication, I thought I’d copy out the actual poem. I’m also taking a two-week workshop and will have to devote time to that rather than my ramblings.It was written under an early pen name. (Kalliope, Volume 7, No. 2)
In a dream I was taught by touching the walls of a cave
I would turn to stone,
not be noticed by the armies of the night.
Watching brown-shirted boys
wrap around blue-bloused girls,
blowing hot breath in their tangled hair,
I feel my fingers claw the clay.
I am sixteen.
we eat Tandoori chicken
twine fingers to cislunar violins.
Intermezzo harp resonates
deep space darkness of the heart.
He licks saffron from my lips.
Natant, I become the liquid sky.
I am twenty one.
In the distance he is standing
silhouetted against brush blue hills.
I call and he runs towards the scarlet sun.
He is a rabbit hopping through reeds,
he is a bramble bush blowing down the fence row.
He tumbles and flies, tumbles and flies.
I am twenty four.