Ghazal of the Almost Obvious

This entry is part 82 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11


Small leaves like torn paper sleeves on
the dogwood; green arms barely obvious.

In a quiet room with mirrors, the sounds
of breathing seem multiplied, more obvious.

Faint red smudge at the wood’s edge— if
burning, if blooming, not quite obvious.

Small rain on an east wind, small sparrow,
small cloud: the moon’s fingernail, not obvious.

I burn sheaves of things on the open plain
and look for signs of what’s not quite obvious.

Thread me silk, thread me linen and hemp.
The shroud’s undone every night, isn’t it obvious?

Luisa A. Igloria
03 06 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

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2 Replies to “Ghazal of the Almost Obvious”

  1. That first stanza is breathtaking: I love the internal rhyme, and the stitching back with “sheaves” later. And I love the end — making it clear at the end that it’s a waiting poem, waiting for Spring, waiting for Odysseus — I like it when poems work backwards, the explicit sense running backwards from the end to fill up all the images.

    1. Thank you Dale :) What a great reading you’ve given it.
      After your comment, if I were to add one more couplet it might be —

      The shuttle returns to what came before, the seams
      undone, running backward to unravel the obvious.

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