—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anonymous Slothful Photos
SLOTH’S SWAY
In the considerate movement
of the sloth, I see my own
sanguine approach to this day.
Problems without solutions
gather in my mind like a mob
at bedtime, and so I carry these
voices with me all day, more
worn by the night than I should be,
slowly turning my head, munching
a leaf, preparing to hop down from
my perch, but thinking better of it
in halting concentration.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
Three-Fingered Sloth
REAL LOOKER
She's a real looker,
and you can tell because
all the old men have turned
around.
She's a real looker,
I hear one of them say,
and I do not bother to turn,
instead imagining Emerson's
roving eye, a bouncing
ball of observation.
Now that would be a Real
Looker, certainly so.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
She's a real looker,
and you can tell because
all the old men have turned
around.
She's a real looker,
I hear one of them say,
and I do not bother to turn,
instead imagining Emerson's
roving eye, a bouncing
ball of observation.
Now that would be a Real
Looker, certainly so.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
TOADING
Let's go toading, someone
suggests, which I believe
is a game that involves
spotting the people in British
films that will turn out to be
lecherous heart-breakers.
Of course, I'm talking about
the polite productions
that draw on tattered novels.
I have grown in appreciation
for the British classics, with
their ever-present awareness
of the importance of manners
and wedding dresses.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
BALD EAGLE
Must be some kind
of heroic creature beneath
the hairless form in front
of me. Which reminds me
of my brother losing his hair
and what may soon be
my fate. So I should focus
on the salad bar, the static
television across the room,
rather than noting the aquiline
nature of the man sitting
opposite me, who one day
may be me looking back.
(irst pub. in Pyrokinection)
CARETAKER
Like the image of the old
bound in balms by the young,
the girl in a meadow, just
a painting I glimpse.
She cares for the weeds
the same as the tender floral dots.
Her voice is an uncommon
invitation to the young, and her
eyes float the roof of the world,
considering her next phrase,
or the next petal to drop.
One finger pointing, indicating
someone, something, just
beyond the limits of canvas,
an invitation to jump in, invent
the other face in the portrait.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
Sloth-in-a-Bowl
HIGH-BACK CHAIRS
Indecorous, the table
belongs in another room.
The wallpaper crisis,
aesthetics peeling in piles.
The high-back chairs join
the wing-backs for a seasonal
migration up the stairs.
I recall pictures of hollowed-
out buildings, shavings, rust,
an artist who captured
ruin photographically.
One day my most carefully
preserved art will be nothing
but curls, hardly an insect
preserved in amber.
(first pub. in Pyrokinection)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
LOUD MUSIC
—JD DeHart
thumps of vandal music
fade as we rise
around the hill,
a lake finding us,
a waterfall discovering us
and our escape
right before our eyes.
(first pub. in Jellyfish Whispers)
___________________
Big thanks to JD DeHart today for his fine poetry, occasioning our sloth pictures. One can never have too many sloths. For more about the sloth (2-fingered, 3-fingered) and The Sloth Conservation Foundation, go to slothconservation.com/about-the-sloth/overview/.
MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop meets tonight, 6pm, at Sac. Poetry Center, facilitated this week by Mary McGrath. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa
