(Photo credit here.)
We lived underground
in a circular room
where you fed me words
o'er song and sand
and with every vowel
I tore and tongued
my belly grew more concave
until I was grown heavy,
but pregnant with silence.
but pregnant with silence.
And before I could say when
the dread contractions set in
as I found myself like
the primitive daughter
squatting over a caveman’s
flint, bones and fire
where I will give birth
to an opal moon
again and
again.
*Thanks to our son for pointing out the nearly full moon to me last night. Sometimes I forget to look.
15 comments:
Wow.....so touchy feelings......just loving ur each word...excellent....
This is like coming home: Sarah Hina poetry.
It's that thing that I can never quite articulate--that sensation of something skimming over the surface of my skin, that wanting to hold so still, that palpable effect that comes from the way you snatch ordinary words and press them together to form something quite extraordinary.
I always have a favorite amalgam, though it is all pitch perfect. Here, it is "dread contractions."
Beautiful.
For once, I feel Jazz has said something that I can't better. Your words are all that and more that make us swirl in heaven with every line you write -
again
and again.
You're awesome. Siriusly.
Merwah, thanks for stopping by and for the kind words.
J, the thing is, this poem's been driving me nuts! I can't get it the way I want it and keep nitpicking at it. It's ridiculous.
BUT. Thank you for feeling beauty where I feel only frayed edges. I assure you, it helps...a lot. :)
Aniket, siriusly? You are too. And so is Jazz. It's been great to get back into poetry, if maddening, too.
Lovely. The idea of being pregnant with language and silence. Well done
That photo is stunning and your words are as well.
Sarah, you always do well evoking great feelings with your poetry.
When's the Sarah Hina poetry book coming out anyway? (Hint hint!)
Charles, I appreciate that. Thank you.
Paul, isn't that photo great? I'm glad I stumbled across it. Thanks.
Wendy, you know me: that sounds like ENTIRELY too much work. :)
But I do appreciate the sentiment.
@Wendy and Sarah:
I can compile them all for you! I'm compelling material for my first book 'Letters from Sarah' as it is. I'll get rich from your letters. Brilliant aint it?
From what Jazz keeps saying, I guess I should start mailing Wendy too. One for the humor section, you know.
Yesterday, even I had a memorable time under/with the moon. This poem so fondly reminded me of yesterday. Maybe we both were looking at the same moon from different places.
Hope you've been well and happy, Sarah.
Joy always,
Susan
Aniket, you should definitely start emailing Wendy. I should be emailing Wendy more. Wendy is way more likely to net you riches, my friend.
Susan Deborah, it's wonderful to see you again! I haven't been getting around much lately, so I appreciate your stopping by. And I hope you've been well, too. :)
I wrote this before the full-full moon of last night. It was a harvest moon...in February. Big and orange and ripe, sitting atop the horizon. It took my breath away.
The moon does connect us all.
What Deborah said. I was driving home perhaps in November when the moon rose, golden and ripe, over a perfect night. And traffic slowed to a crawl, like a religious procession, as we all craned our necks to see.
It was like this. Lovely.
(One of the writers in my writers' group was nominated for the Governor-General's Medal for poetry. It would be fun to listen to the two of you talk).
Richard, what a beautiful description.
It's funny how we can't look at the sun, which is foundational for supporting life in our world, but we can't seem to tear our eyes away from that cold and lonely and lovely moon.
(Now come on. You know I'm not a fan of actual, you know, talking. :))
Just exquisite marriage of thoughts and feelings, abstract yet not, beautiful and poignant. I have missed your poetry!
Post a Comment