Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Welcome to the Cottage

—Anonymous Visuals
—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN


or should I say, welcome back?
These are the wooden slatted floors
where you first learned
about the predilection of old ladies
in the woods to be villains, to have
ovens, to possess poison apples,
to woo children away from breadcrumb
trails; the same spot where you
learned about the flash and dash
of princes, how often beautiful maidens
fall asleep and must be rescued,
the tender-hearted fair ladies whose
ruddy cheeks decorated so many
late-night reads before bed,
and I couldn't help but notice you
striking a match, preparing to burn down
the cottage, and build your own version
of the world's story now you are grown.

(prev. published at Bluepepper)



I dreamed about a world where, suddenly
at the edges of their being, some people
started turning orange, burning shades
of autumn, and so the landlords and officers,
wearing their capitalistic top hats, threw
these shades of persons into chains, stuffing
them into Orwellian overalls, and put them
to diligent work building a new country,
throwing up the guard of a new regime.
I have to stop reading dystopian fiction
before turning the lamp out.

(prev. published at Eunoia Review)


The budding voices have died away
Leaving the empty room with confetti
Spread on the rarely clean floor,
Small tokens of their presence

In the middle of the room, beneath a table
A plastic sheep, the head chewed off
An abandoned Old Testament sacrifice.

(prev. published at Red River Review)



When they have unearthed us, will they
look back at our architects and mutter,
How they rivaled the pyramids, or will
they first get hold of our wasted celebrity
adoration, our overpopulation, or propensity
for barbaric neighborhood yawp, will they
first peruse the words of Faulkner or Melville,
or lay their hands on the garish pop novels
we carry with us, with oversized umbrellas,
considering our culture with furrowed brows,
will their verdict be, Let us imitate them, or
No wonder they have all gone missing.

(prev. published at Eunoia Review)


In walked dear symbolism,
whom I invited so often to
class with me and down
she sat.
Along the ride, she pointed
out the plumage of bright
birds flapping past, perhaps
resembling courage;
a pool standing stagnant
representing my lack;
an old man signaling
the inevitability of my fall.
Dear, you read too deeply,
she told me as she left,
just enjoy the rest of the trip,
which I took to mean life.
But maybe not.

(prev. published at Eunoia Review)


Today’s LittleNip:
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice form the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

—Pablo Neruda


—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for today’s fine poetry!


Celebrate poetry, and cottages everywhere…

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.