“Blacksnake.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).
Blacksnake
Coiled in my path like an ampersand.
My heart beats an ellipsis . . .
Punctuates the sentence of my original sin.
Serpent conjunction links me to my base nature.
What was beautiful about you before you came between
Adam & Eve?
Mara mentioned villanelles at Spoken Word last weekend. Here’s a form I like: the pantoum.
It is a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues until the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern.
AUTUMN SACRIFICE
Holy ghost mist
Walks on water
In morning’s sacred hour.
Autumn hovers above,
Walks on water
In reflections of the sky.
Autumn hovers above,
Mild, then meek, in wind.
In reflections of the sky
Leaves deny death.
Mild, then meek, in wind,
Branches scratch testaments.
Leaves deny death,
But frosty breath withers.
Branches scratch testaments.
Sun draws blood,
But frosty breath withers
Holy ghost mist.
Sun draws blood
In morning’s sacred hour.
“Autumn Sacrifice.” Poetry. 2006 Explorations, MECC, Third Place.
Cinquains are five-line poems popularized by Adelaide Crapsey. She did not invent the five-line poem, but instead re-invented it based on the simplicity of the haiku. One of the most common Crapsey cinquains follows this pattern: the first line has 1 word, the second 3, the third 5, the fourth 4, and the fifth 2.
Because it is so restrictive — limiting the poet to few words — the cinquain can be challenging. While the form is not a favorite in American poetry, it is lovely when mastered.
I wrote this cinquain a few years ago. It utilizes the word pattern 1, 3, 5, 4, 2 and the syllable pattern 2, 4, 6, 8, 2.
“Sumac.” Clinch Mountain Review (2006). Author: Neva Bryan. Editor: Warren Harris.
SUMAC
Sumac,
Fuzzy head bent,
Reminds me where I am:
Appalachia, backbone worn down
With grief.
Listen to the recording of Frank X. Walker’s interview on Accents http://www.katerinaklemer.com/audio/accents_051509.mp3. Also listen for my poem, Anoint Me, to be read. It starts at about 1 min 26 seconds into the recording. This is WRFL Lexington.
Listen to Accents every Friday @ 2pm EST on WRFL 88.1 FM Lexington or stream live from wrfl.fm.
This Friday, May 15, they’ll be reading a poem of mine, “Anoint Me.”
Also, the guest that day will be poet Frank X. Walker.
Katerina Stoykova-Klemer is the host.
Let me know what you think!
OLD LOGGING ROAD
Leaving behind lawyers and you,
I go home.
An old logging road sidles
around the mountain
behind our desolate house.
I trudge through mud to the top
and eye the rapescape
of amputated limbs,
knotty torsos,
exposed hearts — ringed to count the years.
Here scars are deep gashes
in abandoned land.
Poison ivy and wild vines
fill empty spaces.
Stumbling, I reach out to steady myself
and clutch a blackberry switch.
Thorns pierce my palm,
draw red beads to the surface.
Cursing,
I rub blood across my barren belly
and weep for this wasteland.
“Old Logging Road.” Bluestone Review (Spring 2008).
STRAWBERRY SEASON
I visit farms
Where you strut through fields
You’ll never own.
Your wife and kids look like you:
Jeans, plaid shirts, long black hair.
Quick-fingered, they pick strawberries.
At home, I hull fat berries,
Shock them with ice water,
Add sugar and cream
To cut the tart zing.
I gorge myself,
Run my thumb across my stained lips,
My mouth as red as your fingertips.
There is dirt on your hands,
And no matter where you stand,
Sun sears your skin.
Do you entertain bitter thoughts
As you plop sweet, red drops
Into your bucket?
Or is it this simple?
After strawberry season,
Peaches come . . .
Then tomatoes.
“Strawberry Season.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXV, new series vol. 9, no. 1 (Spring 2006).
WHERE I’M FROM
For George Ella Lyon
I am from porch swings,
Hershey bars and bottles of pop.
From a house of many angles,
high ceilings and slanted floors.
Outhouse lilies, dishwater dahlias,
wanton weeds and gaudy flowers.
I am from greasy suppers and sugar diabetes,
Bryans and Rambos: Romeo and Faye.
From big eaters and bad tempers,
so pitch a hissy when nothing fits.
I’ll give you something to cry about!
and Don’t play with fire or you’ll pee in the bed!
I am from Episcopals and Free Wills,
Presbyterians and Pentecostals,
dinner on the ground and preachers who spit.
From Damascus and St. Paul,
Kentucky-born and Virginia-raised.
The fireplace where my uncle fell –
scars stretch tight now across his back –
and another uncle child who died
years before I was born.
I am from hoarded photos,
shoved in a drawer,
wrinkled young faces
folded against time.
“Where I’m From.” The Bluestone Review (Spring 2007).
(Now my ex.)
HUSBAND
You were raw white sugar,
Sweeter than sweet.
Dissolved in my heat,
Thick and sticky,
Buttery rich and brown,
Caramel, melting down.
Now a watched pot:
Steady and slow,
Simmering steam,
Rising above the rim.
Ready to turn up the heat.
“Husband.” Poetry. 2005 Explorations, MECC, First Place.
PUSHING FORTY
I’m no autumn leaf,
Just one in a withered sheaf
Piled on a forest floor.
I’m not a walnut,
Black-hearted and heavy,
A pungent plunge to rot in a heap.
I’m no October cloud,
A white clot in the sky,
Terrible and tenuous as a sigh.
I’ll not turn mealy-mouthed nor sour,
A dour apple, contorted
From hanging too long in shadows.
I’m no doe, frozen in fear,
Stealth in each dear breath
So I’ll hear death creep up on me.
I’ll not dread silver threads
Cast across my head:
Life’s knotted net cannot trap me.
When I shed this skin I’m in,
I’ll leave a husk like a cicada.
Not a perfect replica:
No knobby knees and hollow eyes for me.
I’ll be filled with the
Airy, amber light of possibility.
The rebirth of my worth.
My belief in my ability.
Wisdom of failures and follies.
I’ll not crack when I turn forty,
For when forty pushes me,
I’ll push back.
“Pushing Forty.” Jimson Weed, vol. XXIV, new series vol. 8, no. 2 (Fall 2005).
