Morning Porch Poems: Autumn 2013 – Via Negativa

Wintering

Luisa A. Igloria — Thu, 19 Dec 2013 18:20:54 +0000

Snow must be falling in darkness,
frost filling every crevice and vein.

Rain must be washing the curve of the coast,
sleet making cutouts of houses in town.

Someone will drink from a cup too hot to hold
before settling into night’s thick pelt.

Someone will press a forehead against a window
to see what aspect of weather has mantled a field.

Whose roof last glinted in sunlight? Whose boat
last pushed off from the pier in a glittering wake?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Winter Song

Luisa A. Igloria — Sun, 15 Dec 2013 12:00:05 +0000

Insidious winds will blow,
and rain or sleet come down
to blur the fields and try
the patient shoots
that bide their time
beneath the loam—

And waiting seems so long,
and spring too far away
a memory of easeful time:
even the tree whose roots I’ve
coiled indoors into a dish
knows it is time to shed

what remnants it wears
of green— Austere
the habit of the season,
a growing lean. Cast off
the surfeit, give away.
Lean on the longer days.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Instruct, recall

Luisa A. Igloria — Fri, 13 Dec 2013 22:10:45 +0000

Only close your eyes,
the teacher said; to hold
the image lightly in your mind,
do not fear how quickly
the slide is changed,
how brilliance fades.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Why it’s OK to live a little

Luisa A. Igloria — Sat, 07 Dec 2013 12:00:54 +0000

My mother said
There is thrift,
and there is thrift.
By which she meant:
warmed up, redressed,
some leftovers still
will not pass the test.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Small birds fly past,

Luisa A. Igloria — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 19:06:14 +0000

then vanish into fog.
This way the days too
disappear, and then
come back.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Evidence

Luisa A. Igloria — Tue, 03 Dec 2013 03:56:40 +0000

Dark heap on the snow where a squirrel husked a walnut.

Scent of Pine-sol lingering in rooms not yet filled.

Half a pair of chopsticks hidden in the knife drawer.

Garden rake on a store shelf of soil cultivators.

Vent hole beneath the eaves through which the house might breathe.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Prayer for Wings

Luisa A. Igloria — Mon, 02 Dec 2013 01:19:06 +0000

Lord let it rain
as it must from time
to time, but only grant
the gentleness of wings

to us beneath the trees
so heavy with their golden
fruit, so far away from us
so close to mud and earth—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Epistle of the bird

Luisa A. Igloria — Sun, 01 Dec 2013 03:52:33 +0000

Don’t beat your head
against the dead tree:

the sun will not return
any faster; rather, mind

the insects spilling out—
proof that an empty purse

may yet have currency
left over in the lining.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear one, anxious again about arrival—

Luisa A. Igloria — Sat, 30 Nov 2013 05:01:10 +0000

do not be disheartened by the appearance
of yet another detour: that there is road work
suggests this path has not been abandoned yet,
or that it is time to look more closely
at the establishments that line this section
of the map— Not everyone perhaps is an hija
de puta, a heartless bruja, a bitch only waiting
to trip you up or put you in what she assumes
is your place. So she was born with a silver
spoon in her mouth, a blingety-bling in her nose
ring, her father’s stocks to cover her precious
behind? Ya qué? Remember what your grand-
father used to say about their kind: just close
your eyes and think about all the ugly and unkind,
all the beautiful, snooty ones who live in their cold,
drafty mansions with no one to love, no one who loves
them back except for the miserly crumb of a saltine
cracker beside their bag of tea; and think about
how everyone on this earth is reduced to that common
denominator of skin beneath these artificial layers,
how the fat around the waist dimples then folds
as the body strains on the pot to expel its daily
load of crap— Take a look around and see who else
is on this pilgrimage: you’d be surprised at how many
are inching along, making clearings, hefting their dollar-
store supplies, their thrift store finds, their non-
designer bags filled with an assortment of viable dreams.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,

Luisa A. Igloria — Tue, 26 Nov 2013 18:04:41 +0000

don’t stand uncertain in the cold dry field
looking up at gathering rainclouds where the wind
could untie your snood or ruffle your wattle. Don’t
open your mouth and drown in the rain. Don’t streak
the black, hairlike feathers on your breast with tears
or thickened gravy, don’t get so worked up to change
the colors on your head— Don’t worry about what
might be moving in the bushes, closing in from
a hundred yards away— You had ten million years
to get to this moment, you might as well go out
in a beaded flapper dress, doing the turkey trot.
Don’t watch anything except in high definition
color, because at night everything turns black.
And when you go to bed in the trees, don’t
startle at the first plaintive call, don’t
have a random heart attack; don’t let any
little thing keep you from clicking.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.