Saturday, May 26, 2007

Waiting For Spring in the Continued World

I have been thinking, brother, of the white peonies

that bloomed that spring our mother died

a ragged splendor along the boundary line

having survived so many hard winters

& being green fires, green bonfires at midsummer

despite the North Dakota storms, holding their own

electricity & stubbornness. Not, you understand

that they are symbolic, or anything more

than their own growing miracle, under which

sometimes the smallest birds sheltered

& other things as briefly defenseless.

They were beautiful. We did not own them

especially at the end, while the hospital

machines shuddered, while the lights went out

& the clear hearts broke open.

(some notes to this: it was published a few years back in Boulevard. I felt like tossing it here now, because I have just passed the day which brought about the writing of this poem.
Won't be long before my mother's birthday, when my brothers and sister in law and I gathered in a North Dakota cemetary to gently place my mother in her grave. Yeah, my partner has always complained all my poetry dwells on death and/or love. Well, gosh, those are the pivotal points of the universe.) I wrote a bit about my mother on my other blog, here.


At May 29, 2007 8:40 AM , Anonymous marly said...

Yes, I think that you ought to post more poems! And I love to see your mother in a poem because I bring to it those stories you told...

Death and love: what poems would we have worth keeping, if we stripped away those?

At May 29, 2007 9:22 AM , Blogger jarvenpa said...

Now I shall have to think about poems with neither love or death in them (not my own, because my partner has an accurate eye). Can't imagine any truly worthwhile, because the act of writing a poem necessarily involves love, I think. Even if you are writing about tea trays or something.

At June 09, 2007 1:11 PM , Anonymous marly said...

That seems exactly right, at least if one aims to love the world with all one's heart and mind.


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