I have the honor of being the featured poet in Volume 3, Issue 2 of MockingHeart Review. I am grateful to editor Clare Martin and her tireless dedication. She is a blessing!
Deborah Brasket shows us connections between a poem, music and starlings.
I came across this poem on one of my favorite blogs O at the Edges.
I love the image of the wave losing itself in dispersal only to rise again, just as music does in the playing, even in the inner repetitions, remaking itself.
Just as memory does, rising from mysterious depths only to disappear again.
Like murmuring starlings, spilling patterns across the sky.
So much “self-similarity” weaving this world together.
I leave you with three gifts: the poem that inspired me, the music that inspired him, and the wonder of murmuring birds.
By Robert Ojaki
That it begins.
And like a wave which appears
only to lose itself
in dispersal, rising whole again
yet incomplete in all but
form, it returns.
Music. The true magic.
Each day the sun passes over the river,
bringing warmth to it. Such
devotion inspires movement: a cello in the
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In this interview, Jane Hirshfield reads her poem “My Eyes” from The Beauty, and discusses the “window moment” in poetry. I can’t remember when I first fell in love with her poetry (2000? 2001?), but she remains one of those writers essential to my life.
Ode to Bacon
How you lend
the sweetest fig
in your embrace
self, how it
sopped. O belly
of delight, o wonder
how could I not
and your infinite
when you resist
my efforts and
shoot sizzling bits
onto my naked
hands? I pay
and all those
days to follow,
till the last piece
and our sun
and I shall never
put you down
or leave you
on a plate
to be discarded
“Ode to Bacon” first appeared here in July 2017, thanks to T.S. Wright’s challenge.
Some Answers You Never Considered
At the cusp of night, before the sun steams out in the ocean,
and blues abandon the reds.
Nothing rests at the core of zero.
Cerulean blue was first marketed as coerulium.
What we consider sky includes only its lowest reaches.
Even considering a dense history with kites, I humbly concede,
and admit sacrifice as atonement, with grace.
No. I say it again. No.
Your visual system constructs the colors you see.
Only when the wind unbuttons its greatcoat, or at the tip
of an icicle, just before the drop catches itself.
Release the line and know the freedom of loss.
Transparent yet wide, unfolded like a fist freeing
a swarm of bees into honeyed air, it contains us.
Your inability to see it does not refute the horizon’s base.
If I knew I’d tell you.
* * *
You Are the Wind That Trusted
The barriers I could not place, the incomplete lines and unmouthed
verbs registered in stone, saying I am here,
as if taw were born in evil, and not the fruit of the need to mark.
At what velocity must sand scour these walls to obliterate the hand’s
intent? How may we gauge design? Galileo’s thermoscope
crudely measured temperature variation, but in 1612 Santorio added a numerical scale.
For centuries, T did not produce a miniscule and stood tall in its singular representation.
Hydrated iron oxide, mixed with bone marrow and charcoal, yields
ochre, a formula that predates writing.
Development, not invention.
T’s varying structure may be one of sequence and slippage.
Thermoscopes were open ended tubes dependent upon air pressure.
Celsius originally proposed a scale with 0 at the boiling point.
A cruciform. The capped spike. Blended tongues.
Complexity intrudes with every step: smoke-darkened ceiling.
This appeared on the blog in February 2016. A slightly different version appeared in Otolith in fall 2013.