I have nothing to say
and I am saying it
and that is poetry.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
Thanks for sharing that. The best poetry is created, of course, when the poet does have something to say.
The wild blackberry brambles here have sent out the little green leaves that come before the blooms that come before the berries that never keep long. They are best made into pies right after they’re picked.
…and so there!
A happy Easter to you and yours, Bill, and many blessings.
Thanks, and to you too.
Bill, some days are just meant to be quiet and reflective. Have a great Easter weekend.
Same to you Dave. Hoping yours is filled with joy.
Turns out, saying nothing is very similar to saying everything. And here we are, embolden to confront both. Thanks, Bill
Silence can be poetic. I imagine silence can often say more than an attempt to say it all.
Less is more, more or less. 🙂
in a grain / of sand the / universe
A. R. Ammons refers (I’m having trouble locating the exact reference) “… chiseled monuments to the past” and I like the analogy here (below) that talks about “movement into monument” (the real poetry is the movement, the process, the voice, the vibration, the motion …):
Gizzi’s Artificial Heart is a carefully chiseled book of poetic wonders.
The oxymoron of the title is certainly one dichotomy that fuels these poems. … the Tina Modotti photograph on the book’s cover arrests the hands of the puppeteer in mid-motion, converting movement into monument, … Gizzi offer a many-chambered book whose artifice belies its heart. Nowhere in the book is this point driven home more forcefully than in the long poem “Pierced,” in which “the heart of poetry” is explicated amidst an incredibly visceral gasp and rush, memory colliding with techne as they move through the thanatopsic throat:
The heart of poetry is a hollow (hu-)man
a heteronym, a forensic test, & casino chip
a long distance call
Your last post reminded us that a poet sees poetry in everything. Cage even sees it in nothing.
Thank you. 🙂
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