Poetry

Garden – 3/5/18

The will to live’s in a garden, when you give a plant a home,

The plant will do its best, even if the soil is not its own.

Take a garden and mother it, mostly it will behave,

And even the temperamental, you will do your best to save.

 

-zu

Advertisements
Poetry

You Ask Me For The Answer – 12/3/18

You ask me for the answer.

 

If I had it I would give it to you,
I would spill it out from the hessian bag where I would keep it,
The smoothness of it would be catching on the rough edges,
Making it tumble out awkward and uneven.

 

I would spell it out in splendid gold gilt letters,
I would hang it on my office box,
With red highlights and ornamental curls,
And framed.

 

But I have searched the answer,
In skies and skudding rain,
In the spaces in between the rubbing together leaves.
Till I forgot my name.
I asked the canary.
But he was silent in the mine dug so that I could ask the molten core.

 

 

And my garden isn’t so ordered,
In sandpit boxes, border edges,
That it would be apparent where to find it,
Supposing that you could.

 

The chocolate mint is hidden under tomatoes,
The potatoes are growing in the junk heap.
What I call the path is the places without plants,
There is no map.

 

So supposing that I had the answer,
Held neatly in my hand, yes,
I would pass it on to you,
But I’m having too much fun, scratching under rocks,
And digging trenches,
To tell you that the answer isn’t hiding in these small things,
It’s much bigger.

 

-zu

Poetry

Real Interactions Turned Poetical pt II – 15/9/17

He’s standing in their yard, pine tree green.

His eyes are buried in wrinkles,

Browned and egg head bald.

Straight and very gently tired, corduroy black

Coat, vest, grey shirt, over

Old fashioned suit pants. His whole life is settled here,

Floating down, sloshing in a puddle of time.

Butcher turned baker, he knew the whole town.

His family tragedy, cracked the earth he stood on

Into fissures of volcano soil.

The cracked hearts scarred black

But the old wounds have been covered by new grass for many a year.

Now his old eyes shade kindly when he speaks.

They put his wife in hospital nine months ago,

Four hours every day he slides her way.

He comes out every morning holding the hours precious,

Wrapped in old newspaper,

Carried, breaking eggshells, inside thick and yellow, is all their time.

If he lays them carefully on the faded carpet

Every day when he gets back,

Perhaps they will hold together

A few months more.

The steam engine huge events that have rolled over their puny puddles

Push the water out in heaving waves.

But every time the same water trickles back into the same hollows.

We’ve been through it before, he says.

It’s the new movers in that undo them

Oil to the old water, the puddle thins.

When the old-timers all turn to dust,

Their newspaper lining disintegrated, sodden, gone,

The old place will keep its wheels turning,

With one or two less cogs.

For now the screeching cockatoo and the dank dark pine trees will bear him up

And tomorrow he will see his wife again.

 

-zu

Another one for the metaphor challenge from dVerse! I wasn’t going to, but no one can argue that there isn’t a metaphor here somewhere. I mean if you look really closely. It’s there. Perhaps an extended metaphor even. Somewhere. At this moment metaphor has ceased to look like a real word to me. Metaphor metaphor metaphor. Ok.

Also here’s my other metaphor thing. 

Poetry

Real Interactions Turned Poetical. – 15/9/17

The painter philosophical,

Tubby fleeced and rovers boots,

Sermonising, gesturing, he’s a preacher,

Half a Russian dancer,

Half wry smiles and shrugs.

Back to work I guess.

 

-zu

 

A metaphor challenge today from dVerse. I think I still have a lot to learn about metaphors. 😊

Also found this Ted talk about metaphor by Rosemary to be really helpful and inspiring: https://youtu.be/eXC3-ZFkhDo

Also this is based on an honest-to-goodness real person I met today, who probably never woke up this morning thinking he would be made into a poem by evening and probably will never know that he was.