Poem, Thursday
May. 6th, 2021 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
highlyeccentricI had three very good productive days and then Thursday was executive function sludge.
I was going to recommend Kit Fryatt's 'Poem beginning with a line by Patrick Califia', but it's far too long to type up and not available online. Next on my Kit Fryatt list is 'Splice', which I would love to talk about with someone because it's ... uh... very good poetry but very uncomfortable topic? So much so that I'm not quite willing to put out in the world as a Poem I Recommend.
Which leaves me with...
On the Warren, in the Lee of the Firs
Kit Fryatt
The west is molten and the east is wrough
iton. Light gropes across the field below the railway
line, the air hums sepia and the wires
are still. A boy is whistling for his dog between
snatches of 'Gil Morrice', or 'Clerk Colville'.
His father comes by and hands him
a briarwood pipe, his nails worry a crack
that springs a thorn. Later he will say
a splinter gashed his thumb, calling
to mind the green, the unbred breed of it.
His mother comes by and hands him
an egg. He cracks it with his nail.
Under the membrane is a catacomb
of dry, entire bones. Later he will say
he misremembers, it was an owl's pellet.
His sister comes by and plucks
her a cherry from a low bough. His teeth
meet no stone but sourness, the tough
membrane of a wet petal. Later he will
say fruit often rots before it is ripe.
His true love comes by and plucks
a quiver from a silver arrow, shows
a shaggy foot. Later he will say
the light moved like shadows and the air was thick
with something. The dog growls and shies.
He has never wondered why.
I was going to recommend Kit Fryatt's 'Poem beginning with a line by Patrick Califia', but it's far too long to type up and not available online. Next on my Kit Fryatt list is 'Splice', which I would love to talk about with someone because it's ... uh... very good poetry but very uncomfortable topic? So much so that I'm not quite willing to put out in the world as a Poem I Recommend.
Which leaves me with...
On the Warren, in the Lee of the Firs
Kit Fryatt
The west is molten and the east is wrough
iton. Light gropes across the field below the railway
line, the air hums sepia and the wires
are still. A boy is whistling for his dog between
snatches of 'Gil Morrice', or 'Clerk Colville'.
His father comes by and hands him
a briarwood pipe, his nails worry a crack
that springs a thorn. Later he will say
a splinter gashed his thumb, calling
to mind the green, the unbred breed of it.
His mother comes by and hands him
an egg. He cracks it with his nail.
Under the membrane is a catacomb
of dry, entire bones. Later he will say
he misremembers, it was an owl's pellet.
His sister comes by and plucks
her a cherry from a low bough. His teeth
meet no stone but sourness, the tough
membrane of a wet petal. Later he will
say fruit often rots before it is ripe.
His true love comes by and plucks
a quiver from a silver arrow, shows
a shaggy foot. Later he will say
the light moved like shadows and the air was thick
with something. The dog growls and shies.
He has never wondered why.