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Deviation Actions
can replace
poetry
in my life
and one day
surely
it will
--Ken Mikolowski, 'Nothing' www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/…
poetry
in my life
and one day
surely
it will
--Ken Mikolowski, 'Nothing' www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/…
The Question of My Mother
The question of my mother is on the table.
The dark box of her mind is also there,
the garden of everywhere
we used to walk together.
Among the things the body doesn't know,
it is the dark box I return to most:
fallopian city engrained in memory,
ghost-orchid egg in the arboretum,
hinged lid forever bending back and forth —
open to me, then closed
like the petals of the paperwhite narcissus.
What would it take to make a city in me?
Dark arterial streets, neglected ovary
hard as an acorn hidden in its dark box
on the table: Mother, I am
out of my mind, spilling everywhere.
--Robin Ekiss, 'The Question of My Mother
Linnaeus in Lapland
Nothing worth noting
except an Andromeda
with quadrangular shoots—
the boots
of the people
wet inside: they must swim
to church thru the floods
or be taxed—the blossoms
from the bosoms
of the leaves
*
Fog-thick morning—
I see only
where I now walk. I carry
my clarity
with me.
*
Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
ah you
of mourning doves
--Lorine Niedecker, 'Linnaeus in Lapland' http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182882
On the Poet: ~gedwaylem
On the Poet: gedwaylem (https://www.deviantart.com/gedwaylem)
~gedwaylem (https://www.deviantart.com/gedwaylem)
gedwaylem (https://www.deviantart.com/gedwaylem) is a writer who is constantly holding pieces of herself back. She has a curious restraint that makes her style at once estranging and tender. At heart a minimalist, there is a decided lack of superfluous description in even her longest pieces. Each image is given shape delicately, lingering just long enough to taste. Even pieces in which she seems to be the speaker, she writes as though standing to one side, half turned away. This often leads to a beautiful sense of incompleteness and yearning, poetry in which silence is just important as the words themselves.
She is by no means
Quarantine
LAUDS
Somehow I am sturdier, more shore
than sea-spray as I thicken through
the bedroom door. I gleam of sickness.
You give me morning, Lord, as you
give earthquake to all architecture.
I can forget.
You put that sugar
in the melon’s breath, and it is wet
with what you are. (I, too, ferment.)
You rub the hum and simple warmth
of summer from afar into the hips
of insects and of everything.
I can forget.
And like the sea,
one more machine without a memory,
I don’t believe that you made me.
PRIME
I don’t believe that you
© 2012 - 2024 saartha
