Pages

Friday, December 30, 2011

POETRY FRIDAY- A FEW FOUND POEMS




This week, I am unpacking a few of the boxes of books, that have been in the corner of my bedroom for about three months. Unfortunately, unpacking books, for me, often involves more reading than unpacking, and that is pretty much what has happened this time. Ran across Anne LaMott's PLAN B: FURTHER THOUGHTS ON FAITH, which I loved the first time. LaMott's brand of Christianity is about as shiny, and pious, and squeaky clean as mine, which is to say it's none of those things, at all. Anyway, I decided to make found poems…



"Through this Craziness"

"How are we
going to get through
this craziness?"
I asked Father Tom.

There was
silence.

For a moment.

Left foot,
right foot,
left foot,
breathe.

I don't know
who can lead us away
from the craziness
and barbarity.

But I know
that in the desert

you stay out

of the blistering sun.

You go out
during the early morning
and in the cool
of the evening.

You seek
oasis
shade
safety
refreshment.

In the desert
you stay out
of the blistering sun.
************

"Saying Goodbye"

After the loss of her dog, Sadie:
It still hurts
sometimes,
to have lost Sadie.

She was like
the floating garlands
sculptor Andy Goldsworthy
made in the documentary
Rivers and Tides:
yellow and red and green leaves,
connected to one another with thorns,
floating away
in the current

swirling
drifting back
toward the shore
getting cornered
in eddies,
drifting free again.

All along
you know
that they will disperse
once they are out
of your vision,

but they will never be gone entirely

because you saw them.
****************

"Bulbs"
Planting bulbs
always sounds
like a romantic and fun thing to do

but it never is.

The earth is rocky
and full of roots,
it's clay.
It seems doomed
and polluted

yet you dig little holes

for ugly
shrivelled bulbs,
throw in a handful of poppy seeds,
and cover everything over,
and you know
you'll never see them again--

it's death
and clay
and shrivel.

Your hands
are nicked
from the rocks

your nails
are black
with the soil.

December and January
are so grim…

Yet in spring

daffodils
and poppies

are waiting
in the wings.


POETRY FRIDAY is at Julie Larios' THE DRIFT RECORD.

4 comments:

Linda at teacherdance said...

I think I might copy that last one for the rest of winter, reminding me again & again that spring, & bulbs, will come. These are beautiful, Carol. I'm glad you stopped the unpacking to read! Happy New Year!

Tabatha said...

Fun! I enjoyed these. Happy New Year, Carol!

Jone said...

I did a found/list poem of my Poetry Fridays. I love Anne LaMotts

Mary Lee said...

I love all three, but Bulbs is my favorite. Seems like a metaphor for teaching...