the rose vine – “The Color of Water”

“The Color of Water”

I coast through bands of muddy water,

a reddish swarm 

                        animalcula

                                                exploding

the instant motion ceased,

                                                            crossing both ends 

                                         of matter

 

movement isolated

in a drop of water,

 

                                                            animals naked

covering a space

                                                                        infinite

 

water stained red

                                    but

                                                ocean abounded

                                                with living

 

                        and

from the land

                                                narrow lines of water

            a bright red colour

feed

            on              the discoloration

                                                                        of water spawn;

 

                                                the dark

and sinuous

                                    colour of being

 

a colour

the putrefying carcase

                                    floating

            no great distance

 


This is a found poem from Darwin’s The Voyage of The Beagle, which I don’t necessarily recommend reading, but if you want to you can here. That’s why color has a “u” in it. Also, if you want to try erasure poetry this is the site this poem originated from.

the rose vine – “Bronze Sunrise”

“Bronze Sunrise”

Light permeates the room through the blinds on my bedroom window.

Warmth kisses my skin for the first time in what feels like months.

Though I am still exhausted something feels different today.

The weights placed on my body now lifted, though my bones

still ache from the ghost of their presence.

 

I sit up in bed, a seemingly simple task transformed

from impossible to merely extremely difficult.

Minute steps forward after weeks of falling back

seem odd to celebrate, but I need a victory.

They clap from the stands when the injured limps off the field.

1/7

We have lemony crystals jumping out of packets 

Dancing to the sound of stirring on round walls 

Music floating from flooded basements 

From the boxes filled with ornaments and Christmas garland 

We have laminate smacking to the beat of stomping feet 

Guided onward by speakered music 

Permeated by the stench of collard greens 

And cinnamon rolls in the morning 

Apple cider and steeped tea at night

As we laugh at Big Bang theory 

The Poetry Corner – 24 March 2021

[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the initial post here]

 

This week’s post is a little different from the last few. Featured is one of my favorite poems that for some reason embedded itself in my mind and has never left. I wrote a short essay analyzing the poem, and by sharing it I hope to give a small taste of how poems can work, even really short ones like this one. I hope you enjoy it!

 

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Practice Wing

In channels of white walls

Lined for miles with brown doors

I saw a boy

Painting his song on black and white keys

He didn’t sense the sensation I felt

That brought me to this poem

 

His teacher stood behind him

Their skin creating a waxing crescent

Turned 90 degrees

I wonder how far he’ll go

If his dreams will unfold

To the sound

 

In porous practice rooms

Where proofing only masks sunlight.

I wonder if he’ll find joy

In worshipping white forefathers

Tolerating white foremothers

And giving his ancestors specialty concerts