Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Words Under Stones


Memory is thin as a shadow.
It wavers like a thought—
reached-for as it alters.
It transports
that wall—
and offers
It is too shape-
less for recognition.
It does not connect, or
disconnect.  It is always part
of itself. Only memory knows what it
is—what it is capable of—all that telling.



She prefers dim candlelight
in a flower-heady room
—a dark glass of bitter wine

with its shimmer—the night still
young.  She will play some old tune
over and over—resign

herself to night’s yearning wait,
all her tried-on dresses strewn
about, as if to define

her changing moods.  She’ll invite
the ghosts back in to resume
their place at her mood’s old shrine

—comfort her there in the blur
of all that’s tormenting her—
candles to soften her tears
—wine, her face in the mirror.



By the easy light of the north window
a woman reads to a goldfish
from a ladies’ magazine.

The attentive goldfish suspends
and slowly fans its tail.
The water barely quivers.

The curtains shine with such softness
that this might be a painting to light,
but it is a vignette to solitude—

that gathered pose
that women reserve for themselves
when they are biding.

Slowly the light alters
and outlines the back of the chair,
the lax position of her hands,

the quiet folds of her kimono,
and shines right through the
mesmerized goldfish glowing in the water.


Black (dark) White (non)
Red (with an and)
thus laid-out-lines

over empty canvas-space,
pure edge (cut-off point(s).
Exchange red for gray
(to ease from white-to-black).

Persuade black to be white
and white to black
Red is persuasive,
will not be less. Re-size

from the center out.
At each connecting point,
put a dot (.) same color as
the connecting point,

but smaller. 
Stare, until you feel
a block of blue
attempt to enter.

Introduce another
black, elsewhere
on the canvas.
Change it to yellow.

Now you have a balance of
intention. The art is itself
and needs no help
from you.



Opinions already established,
alternate meanings,
arguments well-hidden.

How do you answer this:
why?   and how?   and when?
So much for the long interview.

Skip the part about truth.
Truth is a banner.
It speaks for itself.

What heart is broken by stones?
Why water?
What has kept you so long?

Words are more dangerous
than stones under rain—
words under stones.



Replace it—exchange it
for what you prefer,
whatever whim or demand:

your boredom—
your feeling of loss,
no more to be healed.

Go at once to the mirror.
Step in.
And there you are.


Today's LittleNip:


unhappy man selling old stuff
to dark shadows of people
who offer not enough

(first pub. in
Brevities, 2004)


—Medusa, with thanks to Master Craftspoet Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix. Our new Seed of the Week is Shadows on a Summer Eve. Send your poems about that or any other subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry...