Reception

Posted on September 21, 2009 by Dave Bonta

In every bowl there’s a howl hidden,
a cracked moon, a watery shiver.
In every glass a palace,
in every pot a broth, a salt,
in every beaker a shriek of frantic molecules:
words that alight in the mind
just before sleep, like birds
coming to roost in that copse
that feeds the wild wood
& its one good bowl.

About Dave Bonta

Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with one quadrillion of his closest microbial friends --- a tight-knit, symbiotic community comprising some 500 different species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa.
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11 Responses to Reception

  1. Rachel Barenblat says:
    September 22, 2009 at 8:48 am

    This is gorgeous, Dave.

  3. Dave says:
    September 22, 2009 at 4:18 pm

    Thanks, Deb and Rachel!

  4. Peter says:
    September 22, 2009 at 11:01 pm

    This one is so fun to say and say.

    I love that first line. I love how bowl hides howl’s owl, makes it ole. Great tug there.

    “In every glass a palace”: unforgettable.

    • Dave says:
      September 23, 2009 at 7:42 am

      Thanks, Peter! I only thought of the “glass palace” line at the last minute, but now that you mention it, it does feel like a solid insight.

  5. Therese Broderick says:
    September 23, 2009 at 9:23 am

    Following on Peter’s comment — The eye rhyme of “bowl” with “howl” amplifies the undertone of “bowel;” and the vowel of “copse” puts pressure on the last vowel of the poem, again reverberating with “bowel.” Bowels as another kind of receptacle for feed and sound. A poem for the autumn equinox: equal spellings for different sounds received by the ear and guts.

    • Dave says:
      September 26, 2009 at 7:45 pm

      I didn’t think of “bowel” as a possible undertone… but as a disciple of Rabelais, I’m all for it! Thanks as always for the critique.

  6. Laura Sorrells says:
    September 25, 2009 at 11:26 pm

    Gorgeous indeed. I love the cracked moon, the watery shiver. A lonesome enso of a poem. There’s an interesting almost-loop that really makes that metaphor work for me, there at the end of the poem. The way the copse feeds the wood and then the one good bowl almost feels like a circle but not quite. thanks.