Last summer’s garden chilies
jumble in the bowl with glossy jalapenos
from the Broadway Produce Market.
My tongue swims in the green
of Granny Smiths.
I need a cup of tea.
Bluebells are out now, and pinkbells,
and tatters of a white tulip
crouch in an ambush of asters.
It’s planting weekend, Victoria Day,
when lilacs peak
and we can be assured there’ll be no frost till fall.
In a room the lilac side of blue,
a little girl dies slowly,
her life eleven springs, ten summers.
My grandmother will always be yellow apples,
my mother stained Kleenex,
my daughter all the daughters
not my own.
Comments
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this reminded me of my own chilies....
the first year i grew them.. i decided to string them up- got the needle and thread...
forgot what i was stringing and wiped my eye...
oh the fucking pain.
the ex walked in on me....
(earlier that day one of my chickens died - personally i didnt care- it was a chicken and we had tons of them)
he was soo compassionate thinking i was all torn up about the chicken...
yeah... of course i milked that one into him making me dinner and stuff
lol
just where you took me
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This strikes me as a series of thoughts. How one floats from one to another, with seemingly no connection (in the words)...but via visual, olfactory, a sound or taste...as messengers..sometimes a mixture. One thinks of one thing..and associates another until a small train forms running through the thoughts.
Spring, green apples, (green?) tea, garden, blue, death and then the summation of all those thoughts. Fruition, nurturing and loss.
Keep 'stained Kleenex'. It is a line that contains all the imagery you need. Readers that cannot connect to that, haven't the necessary database to read you.
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What a great comment, thank you Bohb! Yes, the jury is in on Kleenex: it stays, unencumbered with more adjectives.
You are right about a floating series of thoughts. I was sitting at the kitchen table, feeling dry and unable to write, so I just started describing what I saw. Half way down the page, my son walked in the sliding glass door and told me about his friend's little sister.
Something always comes when I pick up the pen - yes, pen. Lately I've avoiding picking the damned thing up; can't stand the blows to the gut, ya know?
Anyhow, thank you for stopping by. The other day I looked at my faves-online list and it was like old times. T'ain't the same mostly, anymore.
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Oh...my pleasure.
T'isn't the same, but then life rarely remains static. If it did, poetry would have no place, eh? And you must have much to say if picking the pen up brings a rush of words - images. A writer is compelled, I think, to exercise the gift (well, a fervent writer).
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so you know....
I LIKE the Kleenex line..
we don't call things 'tissues' here
and neither do I and ..I actually think it adds.. character to the write..
just had to say that..
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yeah, I think I have to keep Kleenex. The issue was stained with what, I think. I might change it to coffee-stained, I dunno. Letting it foment for a bit. Thank you for stopping by yet again.
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You're welcome ....of course..
Interesting.. yes .. I think it might have been that, somewhat like my 'agreement' thing.. and I've been thinking about that..
what I'm trying to resolve is .. do we 'need' to know? If we define it, isn't that telling? I suppose it's the same old question of how much detail does one add... yet, 'stained Kleenex' is an image all on its own.. what does 'coffee' add to it? .. nothing really, makes it easier for people to see? perhaps but by doing so it limits it -- let me be even more clear... it kills any associations that aren't 'coffee' based.. at least as it stands... you can have that stain be anything, tears, ink, water, coffee...
I don't like the idea of narrowing it ... but I couldn't quite get that out at the group..
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oh! good perspective. Thank you!
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no no no no no do not add coffee. (well of course you can if you want)
but for me the stained kleenex -- means stained with life.
that is what it meant all along. christ you can wipe make up off, blow your nose, hold a kleenex to a child's nose, wipe tears, dab lipstick HEAVENS! so many things.
xo
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k. checked in. see the potential tweaking. left you a message over there.
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What will you tweak? Curious.
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there is just so much in that last stanza that asks us to read it again and know the depth of such a thought. the layers of the poem that lead to your final stanza are equally as strong - it's just that last one does have some sort of lingering hurt to it once the poem its read and comprehended fully.
a tremendous write - as always. such unique and strong imagery...
Kim
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Thank you Kim - your comment means a lot.
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Great title. Hurty poem.
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from a nature poem to the often tragic circumstances of life and then a composite of sorts in the last stanza.
Profound stuff Zaramia
good too
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Thanks, Ariostopheles.
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I love the poem
all of it
and especially I swoon with
or shudder
or best
I am haunted and resonate with:
jumble in the bowl
tatters of a white tulip
crouch in an ambush
lilac side of blue
a little girl
oh yes
eleven springs
ten summers
naming and numbering the fleeting world
and
the entire last stanza
last line a killer
though I ( a little slow today) might have benefited from space
after my mother... stained Kleenex
(inserting in my own mind reading into of
" will always be")
and my daughter all the daughters
not my own
ouch
excellent
as if it is (the poem) the bowl itself
holding all the color
and life and dying in its jumble
kat
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Thank you, Kat, for your kind comments. Ya know, it's helpful to hear back the bits that strike home; I really appreciate it.
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I have been thinking about this all day. D.H.Lawrence. That's what it tastes like. In a way. I don't know what to say. I saw a picture on a clock face yesterday. The chillies were positioned to look like seahorses.
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Sorry I'm so slow . . . terribly distracted these days. D.H. Lawrence - I'll take that, thank you.
I think I may have seen that clock.
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those last lines.. are potent.. as is the image of dying slowly..
this starts so innocently, all warmth and garden, then ends like one long hurt..
I love the images ( I always feel lucky when I read you because I know the 'symbols' ) Broadway.. yep, that's a poem in itself..
And Victoria day, ..yes it's all 'here' ..
I won't critique .. CV already has..
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I'm slow responding to these comments, but I haven't forgotten. Thank you Liza. Think I'll bring this one Thursday, what do you think?
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Excellent idea, I think.. and you're welcome
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Yes. Better than needles. DEFINITLEY. Well that would be in my humble opinion.
You already know how I feel about this cause we had private time with its goodness.
Glad you brought it out to play.
Oh if you are interested in what works for me it is two things -- the I need a cup of tea (how odd that sometimes a poet interuption can make a poem and how other times it just jars one out of the moment, isn't it? I think the reason it works for me is it hints at something looming to come, foreshadows)
and the last stanza which is haunting. Even more haunting than the second to last stanza. I think it is the stripping of sentimentality to some extent mixed with the Magic. I think it is the fact that the "my" suddenly blows up and extends waaaaay past you to everywhen.
Get it out of the house.
Lisa
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Still needs tweaks, but ok.
Someone at NastyPlace liked the tea line, too. That is so odd.
Never will figure out this pome business.
Thank you for your most kind comments.
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I have read a poem by Spike Milligan about his daughter as a plum and his wife a bitter gooseberry... it had an aching funny sadness...
but i've just got up and night shifts have embalmed my brain... so i can't remember what it's called, but nevermind, for I am trying to say that your poem touched parts in my mind about family and the newness of some and the older, more dying parts, yet in the huge bowl of us, we can be the best still life... or not even still, just slightly becoming moldy as we go..
i love the last stanza... alot... my daughter all the daughters, made me sigh
yes.......
this is a bookmark for me....
((((psst... now my life will get to normal, i promise your pressy will be on it's way very soon...... ))))
hello Mizz Z....
& a cup of
hot steaming tea for you
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back atcha, Elaine
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