TO
SMELL
THE
FLOWERS
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Jamie
Poetry's Intent
Wallace Stevens
“What syllable are you seeking, Vocalissimus, In the distances of sleep? Speak it.” ~Wallace Stevens, To The Roaring Wind
Endeavors have a way of taking on a life of their own and since my posts have recently been leaning more towards poetry than myth, I thought I’d write about something I often wonder about concerning poetry. Should a poet’s intentions be readily apparent or does some element of mystery and self-interpretation serve a poem best?
An essay for ariadnesdaghter on interpreting poetry. Worth you time.
THE MOON AND THE STARS ARE FREE
Why do I write this in ink so black
it melts the pages of my journey?
·
It is a peaceful night here.
The stars are tossed across a
clear, dark velvet sky like the
garden fairies dancing at dusk.
The moonlight reaches down
to embrace me in its silver light,
its touch delicate as a whisper.
·
What of you, dear brother?
And what of you, dear sister?
Are they free by you …
the moon and the stars?
Is the night sky at peace?
My ink burns to bone and
melts the pages of my journey
for you …
- who were born of violence
- who were born into violence.
Your pain and your losses are
not mandated by any god.
The murders, the maiming, the
hunger, homelessness, loneliness …
the disenfranchisement: man made.
·
Why do I write this in ink so black
it melts the pages of my journey?
Because I fear, because I know
my fragile, cherished kin, I KNOW -
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!*
- for what we have done
- what we have not done
- we are culpable.
·
© 2011, 2012 Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
THE TREK HOME
For Trekker . .
·
his leathered skin a shroud, crinkled
furrowed from his wild mind and dry
explorations under our California sun
where he wondered with his students
·
and friends, the outdoorsmen stand
by him as he rests dying by an oak
table, a jelly glass, childhood fave
sits with his preferred gin, taking it
·
by the spoonful from the kind hand of
a hospice nurse until he rests, sleeps
then walks on, in the doleful blue of
of our tears: a soft fairwell dear friend
·
© 2012, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
THE RED DRESS
With permission, © myra schneider, all rights reserved
My first reaction is: I want it,
can’t wait to squeeze into
a scarlet sheath that promises
breasts round as russet apples,
a waist pinched to a pencil,
hips that know the whole dictionary
of swaying, can’t wait
to saunter down an August street
with every eye upon me.
But the moment I’m zipped in
I can’t breathe and the fabric
hugging my stomach without mercy
pronounces me a frump.
Besides, in the internet café,
where you can phone Tangiers
or Thailand for almost nothing
fourteen pairs of eyes
are absorbed by screens.
No one whistles when I smile
at boxes of tired mangoes
and seedy broccoli heads
outside the Greek superstore.
By now I’m in a fever to undo
the garment and pull it off.
And for all its flaws, for all
that it only boasts one breast,
I’m overjoyed to re-possess
my body. I remember I hate
holding in and shutting away.
What I want is a dress easy
as a plump plum oozing
juice, as a warm afternoon
in late October creeping
its ambers and cinnamons into
leaves, a dress that reassures
there’s no need to pretend,
a dress that’s as capacious
as generosity, a dress that willingly
unbuttons and whispers in the ear:
be alive every minute of your life.
©The Red Dress from Circling the Core by Myra Schneider, 2008,
