writing

A lone bloom

leaned against

the vase’s rim

as fresh and captivating

as baby’s first grasp.

 

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Comps

During comps our prof. picked a poem we were not familiar with for us to explicate. The name of the poet was not given. He wanted the poem to speak for itself. My poem was “Mint” I don’t remember what on earth I wrote.  I  was too preoccupied with worry  to write anything worthwhile. I do remember being distressed because I knew nothing of nettles and thought it an important detail. But I never forgot the poem which was probably the point.

“MINT”
It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles
Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.

But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.

The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.

Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we’d failed them by our disregard.

How Young

 

I was picking dandelion bouquets

to place on my mother’s lap

My youth almost spent, I asked,

how long will I be old?

 

Age last longer than youth.

And those who see only age spots and skin

will look at faded images

and in their dotage say,

how young!

 

I don’t even have to be be a beauty

for such a remark

my youth will speak,

shout out from those graphs:

 

How young.

Look! How young.