Ever get a poem just sorta stuck in your head, where everything you’re writing is struggling to break free from some sort of poetic taffy? This poem of mine from earlier this year seems to be trying to crush all newcomers like a felled tree. A felled yarrow?
Sprung
The yarrow died. He said the yarrow died
last year when I was too strung out on grief
to pace the yard. I couldn’t bear the fat
cartwheeling clouds, the soil like fudge, the shit
of too damned many birds. In winter, death
is like an earthquake. It’s not if but when.
But June’s no time to die, too many flies
will gather friends and dot like berry seeds
along your face. This spring, he touched my wrist,
told me the yarrow died when you were dying,
told me its skeleton in brittle grey
was still footing the yard. I pulled it out.
do you know, I’ve been driving past the newly plowed fields all this past couple of weeks thinking, what does it look like? Like chocolate. Like FUDGE. Beautiful.
Nice mention on Books Inq. I loved this in the book and I love seeing it again June. Funnily enough Paul Muldoon has a Yarrow poem in his new publication…
This one sticks with me too.
The best bit?
………………………..I couldn’t bear the fat
cartwheeling clouds, the soil like fudge, the shit
of too damned many birds. In winter, death
is like an earthquake. It’s not if but when.
But June’s no time to die, too many flies
will gather friends and dot like berry seeds
along your face.
Thanks, you three. I keep almost reciting this one, as if there’s something I’m supposed to be remembering. It’s frustrating, but at least the poem doesn’t suck!