Friday, November 25, 2016

That evening sun go down. . .

Today's walk; we took the long way, almost to the park. These skies are different every day.
And the sun goes down earlier in the Treasure Valley.


                                         two poems for my mother

Wind like a long question among us.
Even the pasture won't answer,
Remembering light that little by little
Evens the dusk, little by little crosses
The slow grass. Stars are migrants
Who pause at the river. They question the sky.
The breezes, like souls. Your mother
Sets down her bags to rest and fears nothing.
Blood still falls through her, still rises.
Touch her hand, stars blaze.
Touch her hand, light marbles.

Now wind, like a bird in flight, shifts
As if pausing inside a body.
In dreams, she walks among barley
Or wheat, blackbirds everywhere
On the ground, in flight. Or she's in a valley
Of poppies that are like red hands
Of the Lord, waving mildly. Now wind
Lets its wings down, through her hair.
Now she asks for water, still thirsty
From the last mornings of her life.

David Biespiel

Shattering Air; poems by David Biespiel,
BOA Editions, Ltd. 1996, page 57.

This poet is a recent discovery of mine, even though he has been around quite a while and has several books and a web presence. This is a two-part poem with one 11-line stanza and one ten-line stanza. The use of capital letters at the beginning of each line gives the poem a delicate formality that I like.

For the first time in a long while, I am thinking about a poem.
I am using this structure as inspiration. 

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