A Rush of Cochineal

A TURN OF THE HEAD
—Denise Levertov

Quick! there's that
low brief whirr to tell

Rubythroat is at the
tigerlilies—

only a passionate baby
sucking breastmilk's so

intent. Look
sharply after your thoughts said
Emerson, a good
dreamer.

Worlds may lie
between you
and the bird's return. Hummingbird

stays for a fractional sharp
sweetness, and's gone, can't take

more than that.
The remaining
tigerblossoms have rolled their petals
all the way back,

the stamens protrude entire,
there are no more buds.

________________________

1463
—Emily Dickinson

A Route of Evanescence
With a revolving Wheel—
A Resonance of Emerald—
A Rush of Cochineal—
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts its tumbled Head—
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy Morning's Ride—

_______________________

HUMMINGBIRDS ARE VICIOUS—

weaving in and out of each other's
misery, looping tight wires of nastiness
around each other's need to drain
the rose, sip from the feeder. Look—

there's the beefy one now, coiled up
tight, ready to click and clatter and
strike, red throat flaming like dragon's
breath... Arcing over his naked

ladies, he is all heat, a tiny vector of
intent. Size is not the point here. But,
then again, it rarely is...

—Kathy Kieth, Fair Oaks

(I know, I know—how presumptious of me to publish my own poem in the midst of all these Big Kids. But oh well, it's my blog...)

_______________________

HUMMING-BIRD
—D.H. Lawrence

I can imagine, in some otherworld
Primeval-dumb, far back
In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed,
Humming-birds raced down the avenues.

Before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
This little bit chipped off in brilliance
And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.

I believe there were no flowers, then,
In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of creation.
I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long beak.

Probably he was big
As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big.
Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.
We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time,
Luckily for us.

_______________________

—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.)