Aloe, by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer.
Today I read
by Jean Toomer
Georgia Dusk
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue The setting sun, too indolent to hold A lengthened tournament for flashing gold, Passively darkens for night's barbecue, A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, An orgy for some genius of the South With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth, Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds. The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop, And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill, Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill Their early promise of a bumper crop. Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low Where only chips and stumps are left to show The sold proof of former domicile. Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp, Race memories of king and caravan, High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man, Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp. Their voices rise . . . the pine trees are guitars, Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain . . . Their voices rise . . . the chorus of the cane Is caroling a vesper to the stars . . . O singers, resinous and soft your songs Above the sacred whisper of the pines, Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines, Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
Today I read
by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Once Upon
There is a night you must travel, alone, of course, though perhaps there is someone asleep next to you. The darkness knows exactly what to say to snap every sapling of hope that has dared to grow. It poisons the gardens, even kills the prettier weeds. For me, it hisses, though perhaps you have heard a different voice. The effect is always the same-- a self-doubt that grows up like thorns around a fabled castle. What you wouldn't give for sleep. But it is the awakeness that saves you-- the way that the doubt works like an unforgiving mirror and shows you all the places that most need your attention. It was never the fairies who bestowed the gifts, it was doubt all along that entered you and blessed you so that when at last the morning came, you were ready to rise and meet the world, ready to be your own true love, flawed though you are, ready to commit more deeply to serving a story greater than your own.
Get the book this poem lives in here: https://www.ablemusepress.com/books/rosemerry-wahtola-trommer-naked-for-tea-poems
For Sandy & Ed
today i read
A Smiling Understanding
by Stanley Moss
There is an understanding, a smiling understanding, between orchards and orchestras. Jazz and Bach are fertilizers, something extra. Trees are much older than music and poetry. They have bodies and souls, godlike identities. Trees are choirs, basso profundos, coloraturas, mezzo sopranos. I live with music and trees, orchards of music, woodwinds and sextets. I sing the "I don't lie to myself" blues. I learn from my suffering to understand the suffering of others. I climb musical scales. Trees have an embouchure. I'm a sapling. Breath and wind blow through me. This winter is a coda of falling leaves, sequoias and maples Louis Armstrong. I have a band of tree brothers and sisters, we are not melancholy babies. I age like a rock, not a rocking chair. A rock does not wear spectacles, hearing aids, or use a walking stick. It is dangerous for anyone to call me "young fellow."
today i read
by Lisa Jarnot
Lake of Fire
I will make you understand, I, being who I am will make you understand who I am, on a Sunday, in the rain, when the ice is melting on the stoop, beside the white water lily, having been made to understand that I will make you understand, making you this, the one who understands, having understood, standing by it, in the rain, understanding where I stand I stand near you, the stoop, in the rain, by the lily, who I am, making sense, understandable, and smart, and also lovely, that you understand that it is this, lovely, the truth, in understanding, having said it, having been understood, like the rest of the universe, stoop-like, egyptian, with a lake of fire and the lilies and the train, beautiful, happy, gleeful, joyed, and understood, this, I am, who am to you who understands.
From the book Ring of Fire
today I read
Today I read a poem by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer on her blog called…
Getting to I Don’t Know
Sometimes, too certain I know what love is, I miss love. It’s like thinking water is waves, not seeing water is also the depths of ocean, the muscle of river, the body, the air, ice, snow, fog, clouds, mist. Sometimes, longing to hear certain words, I neglect to hear the words that are spoken. Or craving a certain touch, I disregard all other touch, and my skin believes it is starving. There is beauty beyond beauty, love beyond love, opening beyond opening, an apple inside apple. Let my prayer be I don’t know. Let me find the door inside the door, the glimmer inside the glimmer, the human inside this woman. The god inside of god.
today I read
Found Text
The deer mistook their reflections for deer and the deer mistook their reflections for other deer and the deer apparently mistook their reflections for sheep and what the deer mistook their reflections for isn't certain and the deer were removed from the scene, being deer, before being removed and mistaking reflections of the other deer for the sheep the deer were removed and the deer deciding to join them joined the deer having mistaken reflections of sheep for the deer in the plate glass window
by Lisa Jarnot (from her book Ring of Fire)
Today I heard
Today I heard Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer read Ugly Things by Teresita Fernández
Ugly Things
In an old worn out basin I planted violets for you and down by the river with an empty seashell I found you a firefly. In a broken bottle I kept a seashell for you and coiled over that rusty fence the coral snake flowered just for you. Cockroach wing carried to the anthill: that's how I want them to take me to the cemetery when I die. Garbage dump, garbage dump where nobody wants to look but if the moon comes out your tin cans will shine. If you put a bit of love into ugly things you'll see that your sadness will begin to change colour.
Today I Saw
The oldest galaxy we’ve ever seen.
master bias leaning 