fallow
even as I beat these keys with my fist / they resist, spring springs back
I groan, hammer the veins in my head / as if effort would suffice
all winter’s rawness: the burnished furrow, the cornstalk wrecks
Instead of owning my good fortune — you’re such a lucky fuck, they said —
I started talking extinctions, the medicine someone was going thru
another’s turpitude, crocodile tears on primetime.
sometime soon
the afternoon monsoon
massy clouds will let go
feathered vapour becomes stun-gun
pelts — school-kids, nuns on bicycles, ponies and peonies heavy heads down
all us plain-living things — with life (L…I…F…E…)
gouts and over-spouts
your embrace leaves me drenched
thunder down the hallway.
Image: Margaret Barr’s “Strange Children” [ballet], 1955 / photographer unknown c/- State Library of NSW
Margaret Barr (29 November 1904 – 29 May 1991) was a choreographer and teacher of dance-drama who worked in the United States, England, New Zealand and Australia. During a career of more than sixty years, she created over eighty works.
A quadrille for Dverse where De is hosting and asks us to use the word ‘go’ in our 44 word poem.
And for those of you thawing out from too much winter, here’s Monsoon feat. Sheila Chandra from 1982 with Ever So Lonely
as if we could hear music inside the words
an ode we’ll hum while searching for a word
(Dear reader, the layout of this poem is important — I did my best with wordpress, but if words go a wandering on your screen, it’s available here as a pdf).
Continue reading
in a poem weather’s never weather, there’s something other:
behind that cloud, transitory; in back of sunshine, egg.
if it’s raining, it’s not raining; if it’s bright it’s harsh
if the valley’s brimmed with fog, well maybe…
Peter Frankis writes 