Sometimes the prompts align seamlessly. Today’s Stroll of Poets prompt called for an “unknowable” poem, while Poetic Asides suggested poems having anything to do with “dark.” Infinite possibilities, but this is what sparked in my brain.
Staring at the night sky, December, north of the 52nd parallel, fixate
not on every glimmering point of light, but the blackness that holds them.
Face bit by the kind of cold that reminds you you’re alive.
That distracts you from the impenetrable idea of infinity.
Even darkness, silence have their wonders, but grasping them seems
impossible. Too much for an earthbound body to bear.
For the penultimate day of National Poetry Month, I used the NaPoWriMo.net prompt to write a response to a Sylvia Plath poem. Mine is not so much a response, as a stream of consciousness something-or-other that came from the line “Where do the black trees go that drink here?” from Plath’s poem “Crossing the Water.”
In a gift shop, I tell my friend about my recent obsession with bare branches.
I want to possess them in paintings, necklaces, a metal wall sculpture.
It’s the bud of spring here, and the trees are betraying this admiration.
Abandoning their minimalist life for something with more promise.
The birds, of course, rejoice, but it’s harder to see them in an elm, full plumage.
Harder to watch the small red chest of the robin shrink and puff just before he offers his melodic warble.
I imagine the solitude of a forest, fresh from a fire. Destroyer, perhaps, but purifier too.
It takes years before those charred, naked sticks are overtaken by new growth.
So many years, I could forget how to drink that stark beauty.