February 2011 – Page 5

February 5, 2011November 20, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Vanishing Point

This entry is part 53 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

“Look at the birds in the sky. They do not sow or reap
or gather into barns…”
Matthew 6:26

The sky and ground are the same
flat white, as if for once the sights
trained by the worm low in the earth
and that of the bird dangling from a branch
have merged with one another, and now
there is no difference between earth
and heaven, duty and desire. Your mother cheers
the squirrel bounding over the icy crust; and mine,
by text from thousands of miles away, reminds me
of small creatures that do not glean or gather,
and yet increase. In a book fallen open
on my lap, a poet I’ve just met* has penned
a song of sorry lovers, who’ve whispered
“Take me. You know you want to.” In this world,
how are we supposed to know how all these bridges
connect to one another, why it is that some exact
a toll while at others, the way seems clear as bright
ribbons of space and light, merging with the horizon.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02.05.2011

*Kelli Russell Agodon, “Song of the Sorry Lovers”, from Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room (White Pine, 2010)

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

February 4, 2011November 20, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Dim Sun, Dim Sum

This entry is part 52 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

Dim sun, your soft
floury edges today
make me think of steam
clouds under a wicker basket,
pillowy mounds of dough
pulled into a pucker
atop sweet or savory buns…
Let the glittery icicles
on twigs and branches trade
their hard-edged, fishnet-
stockinged gossip above us all,
here at an oilcloth-covered table
in a little hole in the wall
where the air is fragrant
with ginger and scallions
and dark plum sauce.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02.04.2011

In response to today’s entry at Moving Poems.

February 3, 2011 by Dave Bonta

Wood Anemone

This entry is part 13 of 29 in the series Wildflower Poems

Anemone quinquefolia

Sheltered when small by
the three deeply cut leaves,
this so-called windflower
sways on its thin stalk even
from the wake of a passing fly.
Its pale sepals serve
as an almost mirror
for the April sun,
warming the sexual organs,
perhaps even helping to attract—
in lieu of nectar or fragrance—
the solitary bees that bring it
carnal knowledge of its mates.
Veined like flesh drained of color,
sometimes flushed pink underneath,
its close relatives reminded
the Egyptians of sickness
& European peasants of an ill omen,
especially the way it folds up
each night like a tent.
What is it trying to hide?
What secret pleasures prompt
such incessant trembling?
It’s bitter, they say,
burns the mouth & throat,
causes nausea, vomiting & diarrhea.
But the deer in early spring
are ravenous. It wants to live.
By midsummer, flower & fruiting done,
its ruined leaves melt away
into the damp ground.

February 3, 2011November 20, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Spell

This entry is part 51 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

With every pass, the old broom sheds
pieces of straw. Across the porch,
a covering of snow. Chop wood,
carry water, kindle fire.
Remember the charm that pulled
the town back from under
a river of bubbling porridge—
At the edge of the wood the girl
twirls in her skirt of feathers:
ruby-red, pomegranate-red,
calling out danger.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02.03.2011

In response to today’s entry at Moving Poems.

February 2, 2011 by Dave Bonta

Brush Mountain under ice

This is one of 14 new photos of this morning’s spectacular de-icing — go watch the slideshow. Once it starts, be sure to click the little four-arrows icon on the bottom right to expand to full screen. If you’re on dial-up (or using an iPad) you’re probably better off to browse the set.

The photos are in the order I took them; you can see more and more ice falling as the set progresses. I carried an umbrella, but still had to pause constantly to wipe moisture off the lens, and kept switching between still and video cameras, all the time with my mouth hanging open because it was all so goddamned beautiful.

The storm luckily caused very little damage here; in fact, such pruning as did take place was probably, on balance, good for the forest, downed woody debris being so crucial for biodiversity. If your forest or woodlot experienced similar “damage” in this storm, please, if you possibly can, let the snags stand and the fallen trees and branches lie. The wildlife will thank you for it. If you do harvest a few downed trees, for firewood or whatever, try to do it in as randomized a fashion as possible without building any new roads or compacting the soil any more than absolutely necessary. Don’t believe any logger or forester who tells you that unharvested dead trees are “going to waste.” On the contrary, their presence helps accelerate old-growth conditions.

UPDATE (1/3): It doesn’t look as if a videopoem will be in the works, but I did record new audio for my old poem “In the Ice Forest,” q.v.

February 2, 2011November 20, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Thaw

This entry is part 50 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

Fallen branches ring
the dead cherry, each bearing

a row of teeth. The air
is soft now that the rain

has stopped: milky gruel,
thin salty broth we drink

and drink from the rim
of the bowl. So many nights

to have gone without sleep.
So many days we have walked,

fingers curled tight into palms.
So much sound in the crackly

air. We are so hungry now.
We are so eager for the dish

of melted ice in which to dunk
the loaves of dreams.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02.02.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

February 2, 2011 by Dave Bonta

Weather report

On the weather maps, the monster storm was a sinuous creature poised to swallow half the east. We girded our loins (whatever that entails) and prepared for a power outage, but little more than an inch of pellet ice fell. But the storm hadn’t gone away; it was merely waiting until after dark to strike. Now there’s the eerie sound of water trying to flow in an ice-filled gutter and the scattered taps of rain or sleet striking the windows. The power goes out, comes on, goes out, and I sit in the darkness wondering where I put my flashlight.

I find the big Coleman battery lantern and discover it no longer works. I have a kerosene lantern but it’s too much trouble and bad smell; it’s almost bedtime anyway. The lights come back on. Better go get an armload of wood from the barn while I’m still dressed — there’s a very good chance I’ll wake to an ice-cold house.

When I turn on the outside light, the spicebush beside the front door is beautiful in its gleaming coat of frozen rain. The branches are just beginning to bow. I wonder what the woods will look like in the morning. The rain is loud and echoey as it strikes the crusted surface of the snowpack: a sound as far removed from the gentle hush of a summer shower as Metallica is from Andrés Segovia.

As I crunch up the driveway, it occurs to me that a day without power wouldn’t be so bad — it would force me to get out and take some pictures, shoot video, maybe even use my new audio recorder to capture the sound of crashing limbs. I think back to the last big ice storm, in January of 2005, and remember that it was my blogging about it at Via Negativa that prompted my cousin Matt to send me his old digital camera, my first, so that the next time I’d be able to take pictures.

February 1, 2011November 20, 2012 by Luisa A. Igloria

Waking

This entry is part 49 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11

Persistent voice, you tug at my ear
in the dark— against a snowy field,
the modulated click and swish
like metal filings finding each
other on a plate, their movements
careening into some coherency
or form. Beneath the sleeves
of trees, wintering arms
are dreaming of all kinds of things—
sleet, raindrops; the blue-green
sheen of eucalyptus leaves.
A silken cord passed through
a needle. The pungent spray
from spiraled rinds I peel
away from blood-oranges.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02.01.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.