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Burdock and Dandelions.

 

 

 



Remind me of the taste
of burnt pennies on a coppered tongue.

This still life:
bruised plums set in a bowl on the table,
painted to almost-perfect rounds.

Coffee rings tell stories of her,
constant chatter changes
things get wished
never wasted,

under the patina life plumes.
Cloth-mouthed, she sings beeswax tears
alone, she carries the pollen
of cloud-dreams and a fruited body.

Her womb spoon-feeds the empty plate
one fork and knifes the solid air,
watches as dandelions blow in the wind-
she loves him/he loves. her not/she gives to him/ he ticks like a clock.


Out in the garden
the weeds of winter pull apart
yet, underneath
life/growth/love is happening.





 

A contest entry

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Comments

1 - 24 of 24

  • just rob gold member
    March 1, 2008

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    Good stuff here, very visual, and yet visceral as well.
    I found layers in subsequent readings. Well done.


  • dp robertson
    February 22, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    Her womb spoon-feeds the empty plate one fork and knifes the solid air,

    The last part of this piece in particular is a gem but in reality the whole piece is emotionally strong with the vivid images sprinkled throughout. I loved reading this.

    david


  • AJ Morelli gold member
    February 13, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    how'd i miss this one... really nice writing Gill


    al


  • cvillelisa
    February 6, 2008

    Edit | Reply


    Hi Nursey Poo.

    I've been hanging out at a new poem place where the people get published in droves and they don't mince words when it comes to their critical comments etc. I'm trying to learn how to be a better critiquer but also trying to move my writing up to the next level. Though I don't really know why - there are about a bajillion poems out there already. So I've been doing mucho commenting over "there" and not so much here. But I've missed everyone too. So here i am.

    Anyway, hope you and yours are doing well in Manchester.

    There are some beautiful moments in this poem, the bruised plums and the winter weeds pulling apart that stick out . I love burnt pennies not so crazy about coppered tongue (well I like coppered tongue but not so close to the burnt pennies). Additionally, I'm not convinced of the womb-spoon feeding line ... sort of makes me go "ewww" but maybe that's me. I read the poem without that entire stanza and it worked for me. Obviously just a personal opinion though.

    Good to read you and best luck in the contest. Rob got some fine poems here I'll tell ya ...


    Lisa


  • DogFish silver member
    February 6, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    That is what I like about your poetry ,"Chilly". It's like a telescope; you turn it on some sad speck of a star on the horrizon for us and through your lense it is revealed as a galaxy.


  • Elora Danon gold member
    February 5, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    You give me hope

    e~


  • tara wilson gold member
    February 5, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    beautiful...

    sighs - more than anybody else's poetry - I always love the mood you create in your poems


  • Nogod
    February 5, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    OK .. read it, but once again as with a few in this contest the context is lost on my poor brain. I'm sure it's deemed to be wonderful to someone, but sorry .. not this writer. But? To finish on a positive I did read and absorbed every word.


  • catz Moderators member
    February 5, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    A superb, meaningful write, so many little nuances mold this into a unique, earthy everyday world. Smelling the weeds is not nearly as nice as smelling the flowers yet there's something to be said for their strength.

    Great write

    Dee

  • Yvette Champ gold member
    February 4, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    I have read this three times in a row simply to absorb and assimilate all the nuances gift wrapped within your poetry for pleasure.
    Sometimes I read a poem and learn from it, sometimes I get lost within it and this is has both capabalities plus more that I am unable to define.
    Perhaps that is the ultimate joy, when the reader experiences everything and enjoys the experience.
    Absolutely superb.

  • Suzanne Dia
    February 4, 2008

    Edit | Reply


    Sigh.





    This says so much, Gill. Ticking clocks are really awful, if you ask me (and I don't mean Him, perse, but the ticking.) Waiting for an end or beginning is frustrating and slows time at the wrong moments, likewise with speeding it up...

    But you write it beautifully.

  • Melissa Gayle gold member
    February 3, 2008
    Edit | Reply


  • RuthKephart
    February 3, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    This just rolls off the tounge as smooth as can be. Lovely alliteration and word choice here
    Ruth


  • misselaineous
    February 3, 2008

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    beautiful alliteration
    this is good

    perfect poetry penned with panache


  • Swan song gold member
    February 3, 2008

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    Wow This was a true joy to read. Well done I am speechless

  • Rowan gold member
    February 3, 2008

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    yes, definitely why you are a teacher for so many of us...
    this is damn, damn fine work.


  • Jonathan Wikkins silver member
    February 3, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    well gill, you've really outdone yourself with this piece!

    incredible writing here!

    under the patina life plumes.
    Cloth-mouthed, she sings beeswax tears
    alone, she carries the pollen
    of cloud-dreams and a fruited body.

    Her womb spoon-feeds the empty plate
    one fork and knifes the solid air,
    watches as dandelions blow in the wind-
    she loves him/he loves. her not/she gives to him/ he ticks like a clock.
    Out in the garden
    the weeds of winter pull apart
    yet, underneath
    life/growth/love is happening.

    good luck in the contest!

    mike, aka jonathan wikkins


  • Nicolette gold member
    February 3, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    They say dandelions close before a storm, before rain... I see dandelions and flowers opening and closing..the not and the nod...and all the emotons those two little words hold within them. Yet underneath there is beauty waiting to bloom, underneath the snow one can hear the sound of spring.

    This is beautiful poetry, Gilly - rich in visual, emotion, poetic device and meaning.

    This still life is alive...



    ~ Nicolette


  • ca ne fait rien
    February 3, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    Rich as the grape hyacinths I have budding.


    • NurseChilly gold member
      February 3, 2008
      Edit | Reply
      I know... it is really too warm at the moment, my honeysuckle is sprouting already

      but then again, I think the snow we had yesterday hasn't helped...


  • Cat
    February 3, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    such a solid opening line- just a grabber.

    i live/love the optimism of this piece
    the never wasted movement- breadth of energy

    the strength of important impossibility and the small wish of possibility is laid out perfectly here

    lovely


  • IronIcecream
    February 3, 2008

    Edit | Reply

    reminds me
    we are only dust in the wind
    beneath the snow
    in frozen dirt
    waiting for spring

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