Poetry By
Rose Drew
Published on: 4/2/2009
A celebration of my ignorance
I don't want to salt my poetry with hidden clues to be uncovered by detectives intent on my translation
Don't need multiple layers of meaning on meaning on meaning to achieve a lasting record of my thoughts feelings experiences, I'm not Christy or Doyle constructing a good read or a scavenger hunt.
I know where the Lethe flows, so what if you do too
Pretentious tidbits arcane trivae aren't sown among my phrases the point must be open to all or I haven't done my job
I could pore over Whitman or the Iliad or consult my ancient Mesopotamian fragments, all handsomely leatherbound, sprinkle the proof that only scholars need apply, not you, or you, or you
but then my audience would dwindle to harumphing nodders assured anew of superior education re-established on their pedestals of glorious accomplishment
numbering in the dozens
if I want to be ignored it's not so hard to call my family: where the salt is poured into a wound not spread hipdeep upon the page.
Published on: 3/20/2008
For Rose
But when will it stop hurting she asks always the first serious question not to involve flowers service urn versus box.
Clear pure eyes so often paired with smooth calm brow
but now eyes damp, hollow papery skin thin and dry despair gathers her brow to furrows
It's a low tide I finally say, that wave by wave gently moves the shoreline back, until you look up and think: Ah. The tide. Or high tide: the water that laps sudden cold across toes, arising imperceptibly as growing grass, as a rising moon
Or, I add, analogies in full bloom, It's that headache- the one that lasts for days. After a while you think, Oh. It's gone. I wonder when it went away.
Only the absence once complete, registers
She knows, clever well-traveled woman, she knows. But intellect isn't heart reason does nothing for lonely rage, measured plans will never kiss you passionately good night.
|