Taylor Graham took the challenge to write a sestina about emus, though she says,
"I tried my darnedest to get that bird into the poem, but you know how a sestina is, it goes where IT wants to go..."
AN EMU FEATHER FOR A LADY’S HAT
—Taylor Graham, Somerset
She took a class in millinery once,
and kept all manner of satins in a box,
and grosgrain ribbon, and silk flowers.
She had a wooden statue of a head
without a human feature, but it fit
her hat-size and sat upon a shelf.
She lined her hats up on that shelf
and brought them down and wore them once.
But somehow they never seemed to fit
the next occasion. Bonnet or pillbox,
they so briefly graced her head,
then withered like so many flowers.
But fashions change like flowers,
brief as exotic birds. Her shelf,
now empty, gathered dust above her head.
All the finery she cherished once
went down to the cellar in a box
with a lid that didn’t fit.
And yet, she’d have a perfect fit
if she knew how I keep my flowers
in a mountain meadow, not a box.
I line up hiking boots along the shelf
and haven’t worn a hat, not once,
except in summer to shade my head.
But here’s the family album: head
of household (Father) always fit
and work-tanned; snapped here once
tending his urgent flowers.
And here’s Mother, posed before a shelf
of knickknacks, with a music box
from Italy. And here I am with a box
turtle in my lap, blond head
hatless, sitting on a granite shelf
and dreaming new adventures, or a fit
of temper, or imagining flowers
that bloom more than just this once.
What happened to her shelf of hats?
Her head as if wreathed in flowers,
the once-forever sealed in a box?
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Hats off—with or without emu feathers—to JTG.
By the way, Colette Jonopulos wrote to Medusa, extolling Hatch's limerick of yesterday, but wondering where the X-rated ones are. Mean lady that she is, she also enclosed a picture of the Oregon coast, enshrouded in cool, damp fog. Let's start the day with a little Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of my faves; try to think about cool places as the Fahrenheit creeps back past 100°:
A lovely morning, without the glare of the sun,
the sea in great commotion, chafing and foaming.
So from the bosom of darkness our days come roaring and gleaming,
Chafe and break into foam, sink into darkness again.
But on the shores of Time each leaves some trace of its passage,
Though the succeeding wave washes it out from the sand.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from Fragments: August 4, 1856
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Don't forget the Cleos' Summer Showcase tomorrow; check earlier Medusas for info.
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets.