poetry

A lone bloom

leaned against

the vase’s rim

as fresh and captivating

as baby’s first grasp.

 

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Remaking

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In the mornings you smoothed the sheets.
If I was up early,
I’d watch your ringed hand glide
across the textured quilt.

Once I asked why
you were left to the remaking.

No matter.

you said,

He has other work.

And I  young  (untried)
and privy to  such encounters still,
felt stupid to have asked.

Alice Oswald

Alice Oswald is my newest literary obsession. I stumbled upon this article a few months ago which intrigued me. So, I went out and bought her book Woods etc. and was not disappointed. Her verse skillfully drifts in and out of strict meter, but it is only in the echo of her words that you realize the movements’ absolute perfection. She is an extremely talented poet. She draws her inspiration from nature and antiquity the combination creates a unique and grounded style. She is a naturalist, a classicists, but not a romantic.

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Alice Oswald

I particularly love this picture of Oswald at her home with the books cascading down the steps. (She is a mother of three children). 

 

A Poem for The Baby Album

to capture the moment

I take a picture of you-

those unrivaled rolls and cheeks.

(ah! that baby skin! that smile!)

Now, when you’re older I’m assured

to remember you, so perfectly encapsulated!

Yet I know you’ll be changed, grown

unfolded into maturity and real.

And I’ll look at the glossed relic

not with recollection

only disbelief.

 

Petunias

Purple petunias
With  deep purple stars
streaking out from the centers
cascaded from the planter.
I watered them before we left.

They were a gift from you
and I trimmed and deadheaded
and adjusted them so well,
To please you (and myself.)

On our return they were browned
and dried out.

But there was still some green
and I could not forget
or let go of its opulence
So I trimmed, deadheaded
and watered them again
Adjusting the stems.

They may never be the same
I know –
But they might recover and
give me second joy.