i’m very sorry Emily, you have it perfectly wrong part 2*

easter lily 1I’m happiest when close at hand

As with petal’s intricate beauty grand

I can root my heart in its home of clay

and my eye can ponder the juicy array

 

When I am one with and within

my rapt attention focusing in

This pistil, this pollen, this wondrous style

through intimacy, i’m reconciled

 

my senses and my mind alert

this carnal knowledge becomes overt

to ripen this delight in me

through such engaged intensity

 

how can I betray this body of flesh

when within this fine web I am enmeshed

the blossom and the bee dance within me

of an elegant immensity

 

*see I’m Sorry Emily, You have it Perfectly Wrong

 

An afternoon of dissecting a blossom and looking at pollen under the microscope opened up a whole new world of poetry to me.12967894_869141539878309_1033080321407952127_o

i’m very sorry Emily, you have it perfectly wrong

I’m happiest and most alive

when into this vessel of bark I dive

on cloudless days when the earth is bright

and my eye can attend to the wonder of life

 

when I am all and one within —

this spruce, this loon, this sinuous stream–

apart no more, acutely akin

in intimate immersion

 

Today’s prompt was to choose one of a few select titles and write a poem that asserted the opposite of the poem title. I chose Emily Bronte’s ‘I’m happiest when most away’.  (see below)**

The title of my version, for those of you perhaps not as familiar with the 1994 version of Miracle on 34th street as one whose then 7 year old daughter was obsessed by it, alludes to a line in that movie.

**Emily Bronte’s , I’m happiest when most away

I’m happiest when most away

I can bear my soul from its home of clay

On a windy night when the moon is bright

And the eye can wander through worlds of light—

 

When I am not and none beside—

Nor earth nor sea nor cloudless sky—

But only spirit wandering wide

Through infinite immensity.

 

 

 

 

 

the forbearance of fornax

I’ve got a pile of dough! and I need to get there fast,

not in a getaway car from some heist that I pulled off-

No, not that kind of dough-

though i’m certain its still rising

in that tea towel covered bowl where I had left it

parked in the sun by the side of the road

in that derelict car that left me

 

sit. for a while I just cried,

then kicked it and hitched a ride

with a stranger who seemed to be going my way,

though so far from home he stole me

I’d forgotten what was robbed from me.

 

last night, near midnight, i was wakened

by this hunger in my swelling belly,

made my way from that stifling discomfort

into the opening arms of the night

 

where at that dark oven she stood, ancient

goddess of oven-baked bread, her stars faint

remembrances of that left-behind

vessel I’d born long ago

 

so, you see, I must find it, and fast

I have visions of fragrant dough squeezing

through windows and doors so long locked uptight

they’re bursting to fill my belly

with the goodness of long kneaded,

freshly baked bread.

 

well, these poetry prompts are stretching me a bit, but I see it as exercise, like the ones that I do through the winter to keep my body strong for carrying canoes farther into the backcountry in the summer… the practice of one makes the other not only more possible but, because of the practice, also more rich.

today’s prompt was to write a poem that involves dough, stars and an unusual

 

 

 

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