At the beginning of the month I proposed a stretch on writing poems of work. My blogging was derailed by life and I never got to post the results before taking a hiatus. I haven't forgotten, so I'm posting them today.
Harriet at spynotes shares a poem entitled The Gardener.If you've written a poem of work, please let me know. I'd love to include it in this list.
Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
Bird RecordistJulie Larios at The Drift Record shares a poem entitled Carpenter.
What a strange bird the recordist is,
Up at dawn, check.
Listens to the chorus. Check.
Takes out his parabolic mike.
Wait a minute.
He presses record.
Brings it home.
And then bird song fills the room:
The jubilant invitations to a nest;
Harsh challenges to a rival;
Sweet, soaring seductions;
Bold warnings to a fox or raptor or passing owl;
Praise of succulent berries;
And the querulous rantings of the unwanted male.
The recordist never opens his own mouth,
But his ears--oh his ears--are ready, content full,
A blevit of sound.
Tomorrow he will find another glen.
@2009 Jane Yolen
Tess at Written for Children left this poem in the comments.
ART OF PERFORMANCE
She convinces that the blade
can be persuaded to behave
and find its way inside her.
The lady sword swallower
knows the trick to let it slip
along her throat, apparently without choking;
her hands rise above her head, while wide
she spreads her fingers as if approaching light will blind her. Simply note the violation
and what follows: the neat compartments submit to art, wherein the take makes show of letting go.
It looks just like a swallow.
How can we know?
One might even question if,
in fact, she's hollow.
A practiced conductor won't reveal the trick;
the magic is no magic but repeating it.