You got the gift! Great stuff! Nice mix of classic influences that flow - I hear echoes of Robert Frost, Thoreau and Dickinson just off the top of my head. Love it! Bravo! Subscribed and recommended!
"Listen to frogs trill deep in the brush, and know it is spring. A flowering pear tree flickers white through a ragged curtain of rain. A swallow cuts against the current and vanishes. "
If an aspect of poetry is the duality of opposites, this poem succeeds. The simple sentence “Tomorrow, snow.”ends wonderfully what we think is a spring poem, which it is but also isn’t. It exists in a liminal space, at a brink where it seems you’ve given yourself the hard task of finding the exact line between winter and spring. But then the poem resigns itself to the forthcoming snow, which is in tone with your use of “blur” later. And like a blur, so the line between seasons.
A poem that makes you see by reading.
I haven't figured out how to respond with words to these poems. So I will say that my breath responds and my body responds. Thank you for this!
It’s all a vision of heaven seen through a glass darkly. That’s why we feel such longing!
Loved this, I was there too it feels. Naming wild things as poetry. I do this too. What a beautiful way to live and learn.
This is ethereal, and took me to another place...deeply. I am truly grateful for this poem, just wow. Thank you, I have subscribed. More please🙏💓
You got the gift! Great stuff! Nice mix of classic influences that flow - I hear echoes of Robert Frost, Thoreau and Dickinson just off the top of my head. Love it! Bravo! Subscribed and recommended!
Awesome writing:
"Listen to frogs trill deep in the brush, and know it is spring. A flowering pear tree flickers white through a ragged curtain of rain. A swallow cuts against the current and vanishes. "
Such a sense of place in those lines.
The first poem in the sequence…
If an aspect of poetry is the duality of opposites, this poem succeeds. The simple sentence “Tomorrow, snow.”ends wonderfully what we think is a spring poem, which it is but also isn’t. It exists in a liminal space, at a brink where it seems you’ve given yourself the hard task of finding the exact line between winter and spring. But then the poem resigns itself to the forthcoming snow, which is in tone with your use of “blur” later. And like a blur, so the line between seasons.
Yes. Amen, and yes.
These sink into you
“This is the sacrament of the present moment. Time passes through the body, leaving a poem in the mouth.”
This is my favourite part and gave me chills!! Such a wonderful poem.
Scintillated edges . . . Nicely phrased