Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Malleable heart, mouth open to the sky and rain,
my discipline is to learn your one singing note—
to fish it out of the depths of a fountain like a penny
someone tossed there long ago, or like the sun
in hiding. Not so easy to twirl the simple
wooden mallet, learn how the wrist must circle
lightly around the rim; or when it comes, how to loft
its brassy bangle, let it eddy across the grass.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Poet Luisa A. Igloria (Poetry Foundation web page, author webpage ) is the winner of the 2015 Resurgence Prize (UK), the world’s first major award for ecopoetry, selected by former UK poet laureate Sir Andrew Motion, Alice Oswald, and Jo Shapcott. She is the author of What is Left of Wings, I Ask (2018 Center for the Book Arts Letterpress Chapbook Prize, selected by Natasha Trethewey); Bright as Mirrors Left in the Grass (Kudzu House Press eChapbook selection for Spring 2015), Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser (Utah State University Press, 2014 May Swenson Prize), Night Willow (Phoenicia Publishing, 2014), The Saints of Streets (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2013), Juan Luna’s Revolver (2009 Ernest Sandeen Prize, University of Notre Dame Press), and nine other books. She is a member of the core faculty of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University which she directed from 2009-2015. In 2018, she was the inaugural Glasgow Distinguished Writer in Residence at Washington and Lee University. When she isn’t writing, reading, or teaching, she cooks with her family, knits, hand-binds books, and listens to tango music.
And I see Luisa’s posted a photo of the bowl in question.
Malleable heart, mouth open to the sky and rain,/my discipline is to learn your one singing note—/to fish it out of the depths of a fountain like a penny/someone tossed there long ago, or like the sun/in hiding.—“Singing Bowl”, Luisa A. Igloria
A SECOND TIME AROUND
Is it your one singing note that I am deaf to,
one you have always kept unsung, unheard?
How deep must I plunge into the whirlpool
that your malleable heart has hidden, unmarked,
uncharted, like uncollected coins grown old
in a broken fountain, tokens of desire or whimsy?
Dare I fish it out, this one uncollected penny,
from what depths it has reached in that well?
When you tossed it away, it was best forgotten
like some wilted petals in a convent’s breviary.
I have coveted that one note, I have haunted
the barnacled wayside fountain, brackish now,
where you must have thrown it like a shrug
one winter over your cold uncovered shoulder.
In spring thaw, I could see it again, leaden
and rusty as the sun hidden by some penumbra,
and I must collect it now, make it sparkle
once again, rub it on my sleeve, and wrap it
until I could wheedle from its sheen that
one note you have always kept unsung, unheard.
—Albert B. Casuga
04-25-111