You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
If spring arrives without rain,
would the root and leaf open?
Seed that has not rotted
or satisfied hunger,
become buried too deep
or fallen on stone,
may reply, in its own season. And so,
in your own way, rise up and walk.
Keeping your heart tender,
within reason.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
we move. like the water, like the wind
– across rock, across soil –
until people speaking of common activities
and customs will completely baffle
sometimes the growing season’s quite short
compared to our place of origin
even so, she wants tropics
where everything in the closet
will mildew before sunrise
and there’s no worry of frost
we’ve gone underground, ourselves
after trusting too much in human love
emerged not on rock or air wholly
but collected from scattered places
and pieced back, as best anyone can
with blueberry-stained hands
so what’s the name of your divinity?
your desires? your natures?
the apple of your eye?
even the forest seeks climax
she’ll say, quartering a winesap
its burgundy ringing
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
Here’s a section from a collection of contemporary American sonnets I’ve done along the lines of those by the late and wonderful Ted Berrigan. It’s one of 60 from Braided Double-Cross.
~*~
As I said at the time …
In defining poetry, Berrigan’s concept of a windup toy serves well for me. How basic can I make it? (A single word? Maybe two?) As well as how extended or elaborate!
I still don’t like poetry that’s written as code, an intellectual equation of meaning.
Also, I prefer lines that are long enough to have something happen within each one.
I love when literature (or any art, for that matter) opens as a state of awareness – or fullest existence – which also expands into epiphanies of dancing or singing or perhaps, well, just imagine. Think twice about the chemically aided experiences – pinot, martini, pot? Yes, the Zone, when it graces. In a continuum, with differing specifics.
A set of skills and disciplined thought and, I would hope, tradition / culture. Not that every time I read a book or sit to write I’m there. Indeed, there may be good reasons we cannot dwell long in that Zone (Is it too isolated? Too exclusionary? Self-centered even when we find it occurring in Otherness?) …
A break, then. And then back to work.
~*~
A green-streaked sentry flanked by thistles
on every town common is more explicit
than any boom box. Please, my darling, please
don’t let carnal memories expire between us.
I set forth at a disadvantage.
Ribbons of baby oil. Snaking Chinese dragons.
One flesh, lagoons. Trembling like the wind
in shrubs and flowers. You chained
criticism on my Academy of St. Martin
in the wallpaper, provoking blatant spice factory
peppers and cinnamon misrepresentations
of common logic, as if you were running for office.
Without proper camouflage, there’s nothing to repulse
destitution overtaking military-issue fortifications.
Poem copyright by Jnana Hodson
(originally appeared in the journal Plungelit)
For more, click here.
Within the range of distinctives
of nasty red, the Capitol black
the ethereal albino instead
he aligns with the eastern gray
and the western gray.
Yet who would be saint of the squirrel?
Not Lord Rama, who caresses one
as a pet. Nor the cultivating Hermes.
The Blackfoot know him as Old Man.
As he was becoming.
* * *
of course squirrels have faith
of a practical sort
in running the wire, in leaping from a branch
and landing a full eight feet between trees
with such airy jurisdiction
* * *
in a flash such as music
or the tail as a sail
just leap
and grab hold somewhere
* * *
the question, at heart, what was in his blood?
as well as what was it becoming?
not the patriarch, then free from bondage
* * *
overhead, the years overlap
underfoot, the roots tangle
to be light, then lighter than pigeons
or laughter and tears
become gray pussy-willow at the end of winter
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
what happened to all the nuts
planted back there
acorns with their hearts ripped out
all his transports in this cosmic trap
in the breach the yard could as easily be jammed
with half-buried books
waiting to be devoured
all the same, he darts into hidden pages,
spitefully aware his plot was unfolding
more than ever expected
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Just what more do we need
in addition to the beginnings of two panels of ferns
behind the lilacs – my woodland mirror
or a blooming tepee with gourds and climbing beans
surrounded by zinnias for my Lady of Sunday Comics
in the heart of the exposed swamp
and the race to implant the kitchen-door garden …
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
he could hole up
with long-suppressed luminous temperaments
if only he could scale every surface except glass
shimmy up the black steel pole and raid the bird feeder
hang upside down from a sunflower
moving toward transition
an untested dream
from the stockpile admits to darling insecurity
in the hole the tree the ground
faint implausible rhythms chirps more lasting
if not so lucrative
* * *
every tree branches, so you choose in a flash
and keep running in the desert he had wondered
about squirrels so far from the nearest tree
the ones who live in burrows
whether somewhere they’d made a wrong turn
a deer makes a bigger target
than foraging for dynamite
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
bright brown irises
maybe a little too wide-eyed (available)
hair golden heartbreak. still
Duquesne University and Uniontown, Pennsylvania,
were places he’d been, he told her
requesting the next dance
there’s more than lightness afoot
driving these distances. Attraction, see,
flashes into conflict
“Quakers. They believe in Jesus, don’t they?” is how
she starts revealing she’s Jewish, from New York City,
but Ohio Boy steps back instead of forward, and misses
a third muses, “Relationships are weird. Always weird,”
while wondering if she’s sufficiently brainy to stay him
or just what he might be lacking
all the same, they cover their aces and wild cards,
map their terrain, and
reach out in the music for someone
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set, click here.
Ever seen a squirrel caught in a bramble?
A seeming escape leading nowhere?
He could tell you.
* * *
He could tell you
he’s lucky to still be alive.
* * *
There are those who insist love is nothing more
than a seasonal disorder, an allergy or a virus.
Makes sense when you’re speaking of Sick With Love.
But how do you cope dealing with females
happier with thorns than leaves and berries?
Or when confronted by some dog?
* * *
Running along a phone line, a squirrel
never falls over. To hell with gravity.
It’s the strength of those long, skinny toes
can reach around a stick. Hold tight.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Ants swarm over a sugar maple’s
spigot and sap bucket.
In earth and in air, green spirals
uncoil.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
