(no subject)
a cross post that orignally was not going to be
until my friend silverskytears compared this piece of mine to one of Robert Lowell's called Skunk Hour, I did not know how I felt about it. And not that a single compliment can answer that question for me, but it can certainly get me closer to where I would like to be, and it was lovely flattery:)
The house is selling.
Keith street.
Big whitey.
It's edges dissapear and the ceiling leaks.
There are four cats buried in the backyard.
We've always had Eufaula.
One Spring, the cedar split
during a lightning spell.
Where my dad's sun tea sat.
The only Apricot I've had
right from the tree.
Our handprints are in the concrete.
My first Mother's Day was Sunday.
Like Easter, the holiday was
all birth and death.
Generations of things.
My spiritual past.
A tomb whose ghost
has left and reappeared in the garden.
I am suited best in foliage.
Mother purchased ten squares for herself.
She is waiting it out,
the threads of her contingency.
She wants a Great Pyrinese
to watch guard the acreage.
Our gathering was splintered.
I cried and fell apart.
John was there and
he pulled me tight
when I couldn't find my place.
Mother surveyed her assets.
Victrola, Sideboard, the Lily in the vase.
Sets of McCoy, barbery tools, the balloon woman.
Weekenders on May Avenue antiques.
The candleshop.
Flowers on the corner.
The quintessential couple.
The Jeanery.
The VZD.
Full Circle Books.
42nd Street Candy.
You name it.
There's a factory color for it
in some picture some where.
At the Anniversary party,
I saw that picture
all amber and glowy
where I sat in utero,
six months my flower.
Who would have known that we
could mimic our pasts so legibly?
He just twisted away from his parents.
A Moon and a Yew Tree.
A Stork and a baby in a bag.
Pumpkins on vines in October.
Tulips planted on the bias.
This motherhood is a lens
over every particle of your life.
This is the telescope
moving over Neptune.
The riddle is in the water.
All fish swim in rows.
The clam smiles and sleeps.
The link to Lowell's Skunk Hour:http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=1050
until my friend silverskytears compared this piece of mine to one of Robert Lowell's called Skunk Hour, I did not know how I felt about it. And not that a single compliment can answer that question for me, but it can certainly get me closer to where I would like to be, and it was lovely flattery:)
The house is selling.
Keith street.
Big whitey.
It's edges dissapear and the ceiling leaks.
There are four cats buried in the backyard.
We've always had Eufaula.
One Spring, the cedar split
during a lightning spell.
Where my dad's sun tea sat.
The only Apricot I've had
right from the tree.
Our handprints are in the concrete.
My first Mother's Day was Sunday.
Like Easter, the holiday was
all birth and death.
Generations of things.
My spiritual past.
A tomb whose ghost
has left and reappeared in the garden.
I am suited best in foliage.
Mother purchased ten squares for herself.
She is waiting it out,
the threads of her contingency.
She wants a Great Pyrinese
to watch guard the acreage.
Our gathering was splintered.
I cried and fell apart.
John was there and
he pulled me tight
when I couldn't find my place.
Mother surveyed her assets.
Victrola, Sideboard, the Lily in the vase.
Sets of McCoy, barbery tools, the balloon woman.
Weekenders on May Avenue antiques.
The candleshop.
Flowers on the corner.
The quintessential couple.
The Jeanery.
The VZD.
Full Circle Books.
42nd Street Candy.
You name it.
There's a factory color for it
in some picture some where.
At the Anniversary party,
I saw that picture
all amber and glowy
where I sat in utero,
six months my flower.
Who would have known that we
could mimic our pasts so legibly?
He just twisted away from his parents.
A Moon and a Yew Tree.
A Stork and a baby in a bag.
Pumpkins on vines in October.
Tulips planted on the bias.
This motherhood is a lens
over every particle of your life.
This is the telescope
moving over Neptune.
The riddle is in the water.
All fish swim in rows.
The clam smiles and sleeps.
The link to Lowell's Skunk Hour:http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?prmID=1050