If you've read the comments section of my posts recently, you've probably come across the poetry of Lisa Nickerson. I like that she leaves them here, but I wanted to make the poems more accessible, so I asked her to let me link her site. Rather, she wanted to link her e-zine Burst. Very generous, I would say. Here is a poem by one of her contributors, Maria Cianni. Please follow the link and have a look. It will be well worth the effort.
All morning long I follow my
shadow; above an anonymous balloon
bursts, white, no strings.
I want to be a peacock,
a synthesis of colours, lily
perfume, music; find a new
way of seeing.
Kierkegaard eating honey
on a freshly baked roll.
Honey and choices, brave,
that's all. That's all?
Maybe Chopin.
A walk begins and ends in shadows.
That bus ride across Europe,
those places I never learned to
pronounce correctly, passionate
cracks of dawn, carry on.
Any day will do, any place.
The smell of yesterday is gone.
Walking Time
All morning long I follow my
shadow; above an anonymous balloon
bursts, white, no strings.
I want to be a peacock,
a synthesis of colours, lily
perfume, music; find a new
way of seeing.
Kierkegaard eating honey
on a freshly baked roll.
Honey and choices, brave,
that's all. That's all?
Maybe Chopin.
A walk begins and ends in shadows.
That bus ride across Europe,
those places I never learned to
pronounce correctly, passionate
cracks of dawn, carry on.
Any day will do, any place.
The smell of yesterday is gone.
dear cafe selavy,
ReplyDeletethanks so much for sporting some love for our little ezine. muchly appreciated.
here's one of mine for the record.
WITH ROBINSON AT THE FAIRGROUND AFTER HOURS
for Weldon Kees
Robinson, your harrowing, gray-felt seclusion
the cat named Lonesome
and red socks left in the sink,
come, let's walk arm in arm
on trampled grass through the deserted stalls
and stale smells of the workers' fires,
to a field of tents
strung with a necklace of lanterns.
The jewel stuck in my throat, dear Robinson
I wish it was a pearl
swirled from Aphrodite's mantle
something to soothe,
alas
it may only be this,
a worthless bauble, a cabochon of fear.
I say, “How hushed the gilded calliope
parked under the massive oak and yet
in the distance, I hear music.”
“Something about gold, it sings to blackness.”
The smoke from the cigarette wreathes his head.
Pigeons on the bridge fluff,
pick fleas, coo,
our steps in unison, these dust covered shoes.
I've been reading cafe selavy for few months now and wanted to say I've really enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteI think I started when you were writing about the keys. That's a place I havent had the pleasure BUT, will oneday soon. The only problem, I might not leave. I'm like that around the ocean, I seem to become someone else :)
Also, nice site/poems by Lisa, I've been reading her work here and checked out her ezine, I wish I could write poems, or anything for that matter :)
well, this is alot longer than I wanted, but thanks and keep it up.
Danny
Lisa,
ReplyDeleteFrom where such desolate images?
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water."
That Hideous Mr. Eliot