The memory of winter trees
The season’s news was bombs and numbers killed.
The river tied and untied itself, slipping
the grip of rocks and hiding one icy wing
under another -- then another -- prolific and wild
as bird or angel, not fallen but felled
and rapt with attention to its own nothing --
the shifting yield of depth and current, in-folding
down, earthward, sky on its back sheer and rippled.
Snow gleamed. The little I walked past formal trees
that stiffened their veins against frigid air
and held life close, a wet thread through the core.
The nest of wire in my chest rang and breathed
a cold that burned blood from my lungs, that grieved
my mouth to silence like the gasp of distant war.
"prolific and wild as bird or angel" - I love this part, beautiful! ;-)
ReplyDeleteLucia: thank you :-) i am very cautious about mentioning angels in poems -- but every time i deleted it, it popped back in ....
DeleteI love breathing in cold air. There is something about it when the cold hits your lungs and forming crystals on your lips.
ReplyDeleteLiz: this would be lovely today!
DeleteNicely done, I haven't written a sonnet for ages! I really like how you link the first and last lines and I'm loving the density of language.
ReplyDelete'prolific and wild
as bird or angel, not fallen but felled
and rapt with attention to its own nothing --
the shifting yield of depth and current, in-folding
down, earthward, sky on its back sheer and rippled'
I Love this, almost Hopkins-style torture of language :)
Marion: i'm no less cautious about writing sonnets that mentioning angels -- but this poem insisted. there is something about the form that puts pressure on the language -- maybe that is some justification ...
Deletethat grieved
ReplyDeletemy mouth to silence like the gasp of distant war
such a great, impossibly great ending to a marvelous poem... this snow gleaming, these trees holding life close, as you so beautifully say - they are a part of me now, forever...
Roxana: a part of you!! ... words could ask for no better life :-))
DeleteFor beauty and pain observed, tears. The constraint of the form does not constrain the poem (as if you "walked past" the form). In fact I didn't recognize it until I read comments.
ReplyDeleteThe wings of this poem are fragile. There is an ache about that river tying and untying itself, and the felled lying on their backs.
Oh my. Your work humbles me into silence.
(Almost)
Ruth: i am grateful that your silence is not complete!! :-))
Deletethere is an ache, yes -- some days it seems to be in everything ....