Lost Lyric

Shh. Say nothing of the racket of jays
in the crown of an oak, commotion

of feathers every which way—
I don’t know either how to find

the way back to the garden; only
now there is everything to say.

Moths lie still on the mesh
of the window, light

being the project
never quite done.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← ChainusDear recklessness, dear jeweled →

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.

3 Replies to “Lost Lyric”

  1. Nice, Luisa, but I came by to see Luisa’s Birthday Poem. Where is it? Shall come back and look later.

    Meanwhile, happy nice round birthday to you! Here is an e-present, the poem I wrote on my last birthday. With music and images by Paul Digby.

  2. BACK IN THE GARDEN

    (For Luisa, at 50)

    In our peculiar roundabout ways,
    we have tried to retrace our way
    back to the garden, using words
    as lanterns to light obscured paths
    we hope to find again, know again,
    walk through again till we get there.

    Like the still moths on the window,
    we gather toward flames where
    they glow warmest, to keep us alive
    when falling off into dark nights
    of hurt and doubt, of wordlessness,
    finding ourselves betrayed. Muted.

    Light being the project never quite
    done, have we not arrogated a task
    of flitting about like fireflies, carting
    fire to recondite places where lost
    flower eaters long still for burning
    bushes billowing with quiet words?

    —Albert B. Casuga
    09-03-11

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