downstream
meets the ocean
shortly
the way lovers
wash
before or after
rainfall
Copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
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Tag: Relationships
INVOCATION
Honor the frail onionskin
cast by the wayside where a snake
has rubbed its sleeve free
in the course of defenseless rebirth.
Protect me when regeneration
dictates some plaited hull to surrender.
Lead me through each forward motion
demanding we embrace fulfillment.
~*~
Teach me admiration
for these obstinate weeds
– their resolute profusion,
even when I pluck them.
Shield this garden
in its cultivated rows.
Restore our mislaid tools
in the morning grass.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
LINKING HEAVEN AND DIRT
Now, he wonders. Are there any squirrels in literature
as mythic powers? Not science? And then,
in Old Norse! There’s RATATOSKR. (Rat-tat Oscar!)
“carrying hateful words”
the messenger between the eagle and the top of the tree
and the dragon at the base
all this running up and down
Yggdrasil, the sacred tree
Just like Jack and the beanstalk
or Jacob’s angels on the ladder.
* * *
to see a squirrel as cute misses the point
as in teeth
there are advantages in developing
a taste for garbage
bounding, bounding, break
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
TAKING HOLD, AS A VENTURE
I’m not that young, even to be this foolish
and this time, a month of rainfall starts
with fireworks, of course, viewed from our second-floor deck
before consulting a plumber about a bathroom
and heating for the barn
or a boiler replacement in our cellar, connecting
natural-gas appliances and restoring the downstairs toilet
and shower to use in a house
before drafting radical views of both the Garden of Eden
and Gethsemane and then the doctrine of Inward Light
alas, by year’s end, both would flower to book length
or, should I say, all? this time around, getting serious
as connecting the dots in a seedbed
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
REGARDING WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE
despite a full plate of crumbling renovations on hold
Squirrel adopts the Yankee attitude on old-house syndrome and its endless repairs
that is (lots of laughs) wait until something actually falls off
if you can survive doing so
until the savings recover
or there’s thawing
* * *
by late May, the soil firms enough
to get about removing an extensive box elder
for light to expand a space
for a 25-by-4-foot raised bed
of asparagus
in late September, with 20 raised beds of various sizes
boldly placed
the child moans she hates wood chip pathways
and would rather have a soccer field on a hillside
still Squirrel wonders who’s kicking next in their recipe
invoking a snaking rainbow, and is grateful
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of Home Maintenance poems, click here.
EXODUS
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.
MOVING, AS IN SEEKING ROOT
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.
POETRY SPRINGING FROM WITHIN ITSELF
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.
~*~
CROSSING XXXVI
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.
PLAIN GRAY AND GRAYING
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.
NERVOUSLY, IMPULSIVELY, SCRATCHING
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.
