OREAD
—H.D.
Whirl up, sea—
whirl your pointed pines,
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.
_______________________
Today, H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) would've been 120 years old. She passed away in 1961.
WHITE WORLD
—H.D.
The whole white world is ours,
and the world, purple with rose-bays,
bays, bush on bush,
group, thicket, hedge and tree,
dark islands in a sea
of grey-green olive or wild white-olive,
cut with the sudden cypress shafts,
in clusters, two or three,
or with one slender, single cypress-tree.
Slid from the hill,
as crumbling snow-peaks slide,
citron on citron fill
the valley, and delight
waits till our spirits tire
of forest, grove and bush
and purple flower of the laurel-tree.
Yet no one wearies,
joined is each to each
in happiness complete
with bush and flower:
ours is the wind-breath
at the hot non-hour,
ours is the bee's soft belly,
and the blush of the rose-petal,
lifted, of the flower.
_______________________
SCRIBE
—H.D.
Wildly dissimilar
yet actuated by the same fear,
the hippopotamus and the wild-deer
hide by the same river.
Strangely disparate
yet compelled by the same hunger,
the cobra and the turtle-dove
meet in the palm-grove.
_________________________
FAIR THE THREAD
—H.D.
Fall the deep curtains
delicate the weave,
fair the thread:
clear the colours,
apple-leaf green,
ox-heart blood-red:
rare the texture,
woven from the wild ram,
sea-bred horned sheep:
the stallion and his mare,
unbridled, with arrow-pattern,
are worked on
the blue cloth
before the door
of religion and inspiration:
the scorpion, snake and hawk
are gold-patterned
as on a king's pall.
________________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)