Spent this past weekend with my partner at his grandparent's cabin in Comer's Rock, Virginia, and it was FANTASTIC. I had so much fun, and the landscape is simply beautiful. Therefore, it seemed about time to write my poem about the town; most of the "town" is actually just the landscape. The town center is comprised entirely of a post office, a gas station, and a fire station. But the hills and mountains around it are amazing.
As for the poem itself: I'm still rather unsatisfied with it. I'd appreciate some thoughts on...
Imagery, as always;
Flow - I'm a bit concerned about how well it reads and about where I've broken the stanzas;
and Line breaks.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Enjoy :)
"Grassroots, River-roots"
I am no Wordsworth, but
I have become an extension of the hills,
a bristle-cone pine above the quarry.
The way the earth falls down to dusk
makes spreading myself this close to heaven
like breathing.
My mountains curl around me
gold and green, my cliffs fall
clear like flutes
across my chest.
Whistle me a song, Mother Idoto—
your summer and lightning
bring the rain.
Your mist presses its palms
against my face, presses
its smoke into the depths of my folds.
Valley winds, neither you nor me,
sweep me from the rock faces
and bring me back clean as red Virginia clay.
Black-eyed Susans pool
sun-like,
raw leaf edges catching—
still and quiet feathers.
My mountains grow
more real in my shadows, in the
green that's so green it's blue,
in the clarity of cloud pinnacles.
Idoto, rushing wide
as the Potomac, you bear
a crown of mountain laurels on your brow,
a fistful of Queen Anne's lace
in your upturned palms.
I stretch myself as a slate mountain
with crystal-sharp bones, beacons
within fields of grass
sweet and golden as honey.
My Idoto is a row of wind chimes
rippling across river water, gathering
cicada crackles and the
whisper of dappled butterfly wings.
My clover blossoms sweeten and ripen
like grapes.
Idoto sinks her streams
into my heart, prickles
sweat down my neck.
Her clouds spread onto
my foothill skin, smelling
softly of pine sap.
We rise,
future summer rains,
toward the sky.
As for the poem itself: I'm still rather unsatisfied with it. I'd appreciate some thoughts on...
Imagery, as always;
Flow - I'm a bit concerned about how well it reads and about where I've broken the stanzas;
and Line breaks.
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Enjoy :)
"Grassroots, River-roots"
I am no Wordsworth, but
I have become an extension of the hills,
a bristle-cone pine above the quarry.
The way the earth falls down to dusk
makes spreading myself this close to heaven
like breathing.
My mountains curl around me
gold and green, my cliffs fall
clear like flutes
across my chest.
Whistle me a song, Mother Idoto—
your summer and lightning
bring the rain.
Your mist presses its palms
against my face, presses
its smoke into the depths of my folds.
Valley winds, neither you nor me,
sweep me from the rock faces
and bring me back clean as red Virginia clay.
Black-eyed Susans pool
sun-like,
raw leaf edges catching—
still and quiet feathers.
My mountains grow
more real in my shadows, in the
green that's so green it's blue,
in the clarity of cloud pinnacles.
Idoto, rushing wide
as the Potomac, you bear
a crown of mountain laurels on your brow,
a fistful of Queen Anne's lace
in your upturned palms.
I stretch myself as a slate mountain
with crystal-sharp bones, beacons
within fields of grass
sweet and golden as honey.
My Idoto is a row of wind chimes
rippling across river water, gathering
cicada crackles and the
whisper of dappled butterfly wings.
My clover blossoms sweeten and ripen
like grapes.
Idoto sinks her streams
into my heart, prickles
sweat down my neck.
Her clouds spread onto
my foothill skin, smelling
softly of pine sap.
We rise,
future summer rains,
toward the sky.
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