Friday, June 12, 2009

Published Poems
Posted by Til at 3:30 PM

3 comments:

  1. TilJune 12, 2009 at 3:33 PM

    This was published in Calliope Nerve.




    Woman With Her Head in Her Hands



    Among the sterile statuary
    glazed landscapes
    scumbled sunlights
    silken ferns
    Sat a young woman
    with her head
    in her hands


    Art’s crusaders passed her by
    nature’s philistines
    clawing recognition
    Still the stone-like
    blue-jeaned figure
    sobbed


    Creation within her
    the universe
    manifest
    Sculpting her future
    Designing life
    She sat among the
    hallowed contrivances


    Not one work in that barren gallery
    had been created
    during times of peace
    Surely, the artist
    on the bench
    relative to the
    chaos din about her
    deserved the tears
    of mothering art


    © 2009 Til Turner

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  2. TilJune 12, 2009 at 3:37 PM

    This will appear in Counterexample Poetry in July.



    Gratitude

    I remember running free
    among the cattails and bluebells,
    slashing spider webs with twigs
    and singing to the birds in trees.

    She would call from our broken porch
    that dinner was ready and to be quick.
    The amber-tipped summer grass
    waved in the dusk as I ran to the home
    we had made since father had passed.

    Sitting at the knifed-gouged table, I could
    see her shifting her weight to her hickory leg,
    as she stood at the kitchen sink garnishing our plates
    with fresh parsley she’d pulled from the garden.
    Her labored breath, like a slow metronome, was meditative,
    and a faint melody could be heard under her breath,
    one she was too timid to sing aloud.

    She possessed the silence of a burdened animal,
    moving forward unnoticed by most until she stopped
    and drew attention from all. She had a rare beauty,
    one you would expect from a life of toil and good will.
    I use to think of her as burnished, like a marvelous river stone
    that becomes more graceful and smooth as it is tumbled about
    on the coarse beds, never remembering its origin or knowing its
    destination. She buried all her children, save me. And the love
    of her life, who she’d met in the one-room school house
    a mile away, left her, unable to recognize her face, as he
    drifted into the immensity of eternity.

    Throughout the day you could hear the faint tune of
    some unknown song under her breath. I once asked
    where she had heard a certain song, and she merely smiled
    and replied, “In my heart.” I would walk to school trying to make
    my own songs, but it was impossible. She, however, did it effortlessly,
    everyday, the way she did all her work and acts of kindness. She
    had a gift.

    The willow tree she had planted many years before
    swayed like lion’s mane in the cool autumn breeze
    the day she passed. Days later, many friends from nearby
    farms brought food out of gratitude for the many burdens she
    had lifted from their lives. Some spoke of drink, others money, others
    abandonment, but one small elderly woman, wearing a bonnet and broad smile,
    took my hand and said that of all the people she had ever known my mother was
    the kindest and most valuable, for she had given her the gift of music which
    she used every day. The woman turned and walked back to the picnic table as the
    sun started to set. I entered the kitchen and sat at the table,
    where I had not sat in many years, and as the gossamer figure of my mother stood quietly singing at the kitchen sink, I began hearing a song of my own for the first time in my life.

    ©2009 Til Turner

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  3. Sally VeachMarch 10, 2010 at 10:02 PM

    Til, of course your poems are beautiful! Congratulations on getting published!

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