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Tara and Birds: 2 Poems

5 Comments

In that one short hour Tuesday night, we had a considerable number of contributions to our poetry jam on Twitter. Some 21 people participated, although a few accidentally wandered in, asked a question or two, looked around, found themselves suddenly being cited in poems, and promptly left to watch American Idol on TV.

In the editing of the contributions, I’ve often had to move a few things around, because of the timing of each contribution. And, for the first time, I’ve actually added a word here or a short line there, after the fact, to retain the context and flow for those who didn’t participate but read afterwards.

The two poems below are the last of the “official” contributions during the jam. I’ll post one more tomorrow – taken from the conversation that happened after the jam.

Tara and Birds: 2 Poems

By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, and @lorrie58, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.

Rhett/Adam and Shirley/Eve at Tara

Suspended chord moves
the dance until tension
breaks like cinnamon fragrance.

We are back in Tara, it seems;
Corsets
did women of a certain age
rein in.
Can you fix
a sodden sheet?
Beneath the sodden sheets,
Adam
hemmed in,
as usual, trapped in unchanging
ritual, the same
dark
butter
sugar.
Ahh sugar, my darlin’ puddin and pie.
Can you meet again,
the place where
skin did sink
into cotton weave?

All your talk of corsets and ties,
five, as fingers,
not exactly forgetting this,
but not found, reaching,
remembering lines, notes,
shape, touch of skin.
A corset, surely
sodden and red with clay,
corsets pinned,
hemming in flesh
like pudding,
chocolate, vanilla,
butterscotch.

In Tara, Rhett ordered
a chocolate malt
& pudding pie,
everything spilling over into
something else, another
trail, one more thing.
Eve smiled and said, please
don’t call me Shirley;
I think I shall be sick
if talk continues
of flesh like butterscotch
and pudding. Bad
memories of butterscotch
is why,
butterscotch sunrise over pallid wave,
sails slack, folded in.

Hem me in,
pin your heart
to my sleeve
thick as a southern
summer.
Summer sounds of
freight on worn rails;
summer’s heat
weighs down,
not unlike an endless meal
of green tomatoes and fries;
a freight of words
run forth
over well-used tracks
lose meaning.

Storm Birds

Showy birds
billow on air
blue, red,
purple beneath
green storm clouds,
heat and lightnin’
living, dancing evidence billows
white with dark stains.
Ashen sails
hang slack
on a coffee
black morning
going nowhere.
Too heavy, this one,
this day,
she winds herself tight
against its weight,
knotted against flight.

Touch my chin;
it is fragile as eggshells
beneath your trembling
fingers,
eggshells so delicate
now shards,
bird’s wing torn,
jawbone of he knew not.
Eggshells fractured
like pond ice cracked;
cracked ground,
fractured wind,
signs of death;
the ashy fragment of a wasp’s nest,
signs of loss.
Tin on ice fusing
away from lamp-heat.
Methinks a truck of cows
and ducks
has captured our showy birds.

And yet he would
make of them
a new night’s play;
a new, anon, a night
beyond, it flees toward a day.
Ashes rise
on wind;
you cannot pin this
loss to the ground.
Ash bone turns
glorious morning
live and dance again anew,
till morning’s coffee
black (as usual)
did greet him.
Another morning,
going nowhere,
over easy please.

Eggshell hems,
cracked corsets,
we fall out of favor with
the tailored perfect.
Can you tailor
death to a day?
I think not.
Adam does read the signs
well;
love be dead
where roses pale.
I think yes,
Madam,
the clue remains
in that Chinese jar.

Turn over the tailored shirt,
put on your glasses, and
hold your jawbone tight.
Jawbone held tight
does fight with words,
for words to get word out.
A staring contest,
don’t have the time,
carry on if you like,
I’m movin’ down the line.
I can read
to my ruin.

For some reason
I am hungry now.
I cannot resist
words dipped in honeycombs
and licked clean
with milk.
eftovers, every one,
discards, covered over,
left behind, and he?
But leavest thou not
also finding that’s what she said
& don’t call me Shirley, for
tomorrow is another day.

Good night moon.
Goodnight corset strings.
Goodnight eggshells and
jawbones and blue words.
Goodnight friends.

Your Comments

5 Comments so far

  1. My favorite line: “In Tara, Rhett ordered / a chocolate malt / and pudding pie….”
    That one made me laugh. I laughed, too, at this: “Eve smiled and said, please / don’t call me Shirley;…” We should make a video, “Gone With the Wind on TweetSpeak”. Imagine that southern accent!

    I also liked @tspoetry’s variation on “Good night, moon”.

  2. laura says:

    I missed this entire segment! And the conversations after, though I’ve caught rumor of them. Tomorrow’s should be even more interesting…

  3. Joy says:

    Lovely,
    And fun.

    I just got back to the computer after a crazy week, and found these waiting to be savored. It was worth the wait.

    Glynn, I have learned more about editing in one week than I did in four years of school by watching your deft hand here and other places. Thank you! =)


Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. There's Nothing Random About Poetry or Faith - January 29, 2010

    [...] Cindy’s A Prayer for You is a Prayer for Me Claire’s Into You Tweetspeak Poetry’s Tara and Birds (This is just one of a whole set that came from a great party. Check ‘em out. [...]

  2. Loving Monday? Really? - June 23, 2010

    [...] Can’t you just stay home tomorrow and write poetry? Maybe read a few blogs…revisit the latest Tweetspeak manifesto? [...]

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