Reading a poem,
I am distracted by light
that dapples the page:
dots, splashes,
balloons, bubbles of white
sloping to cream, to shadow blue;
shimmering, pulsing
like soap bubbles in a sink,
lapping and overlapping the page
until they become a poem
I must write down.
Diffuse as soft spots
in a dramatic scene,
they flicker, perhaps alive—
do they dance and play
aware, joyous in their intermingling?
A branch tip intrudes as
silhouette, the one known form;
all else is embryonic,
almost there — light buds
about to bloom.
Catherine McGuire, Oregon, USA
I am distracted by light
that dapples the page:
dots, splashes,
balloons, bubbles of white
sloping to cream, to shadow blue;
shimmering, pulsing
like soap bubbles in a sink,
lapping and overlapping the page
until they become a poem
I must write down.
Diffuse as soft spots
in a dramatic scene,
they flicker, perhaps alive—
do they dance and play
aware, joyous in their intermingling?
A branch tip intrudes as
silhouette, the one known form;
all else is embryonic,
almost there — light buds
about to bloom.
Catherine McGuire, Oregon, USA
I like this. You capture well the slight of hand required to turn observation into poetry.
ReplyDelete"all else is embryonic
almost there--light buds
about to bloom."
This is the way it is with poetry writing--lovely piece.
I absolutely love your page. Your poetry is great. I write sometimes as well but am a completely different style. I love the way you write though.
ReplyDeleteThis is a gorgeous poem!
ReplyDelete