A Saturday Woman Poet, Contemporary Irish Women Poets, Gardening, How Words Play, Images, Maps, New Poetry

may bell

may bell

 
not a rook to maycaw its mockery
seats are pulled up to the maybell statuary
 
starling swipes up at a yellow tree
laburnum is poison it sings
 
yellow fish are stitched into a tree
tacked into the leaf and flower
 
the flowerpod
the seed –
 
maybe all three:
root, bloom, and seed
 
are stitched in.
 

seed

 
seed slopes,
slews in
the crystal pool
 
its flesh blooms to an effort at tone
former desiccate, it corals the milk
 
sucking in meat
from water’s distress
 
and living nonetheless–
 
winding in its silver thread
beneath brine of flesh frond
 
 and secret too
 

cells

 
draw in the silver thread beneath brine of flesh frond
 
shut in cold
shut in light
 
a silica scar
a stone embed
 
lit in rock
deep cut in
 
it forms a bird
graven arched
 
this place is unseamed
 

cells

 
draw to the frayed lifethread the flame of it is subdued to a sense of lit
drawn-in too the seed sunk drowned in its slew of coral fibrous brine
 
threads separate underneath a shower of humus that in-bole-gathers
hammer and lead the gardener is raking rounds exposing the roots of
 
trees groved
trees grieved
 
sweetheart blossoms lie on wet ground bereft of their generations
there is only the marble of the statuary now fleshing its wounds so
 
seed will lie
seed will lie
 
may bell and cells form part of a dream sequence from The Blind (Oneiros Books, 2013). These sequences are © C. Murray.The book can be ordered online from Oneiros Books.

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5 Comments

  1. “Cells”draw in the silver thread, because in part of its own proportions, it’s own cell structure, and in part because there’s a linear development at least as compelling as the line-determined images, this poem exhibits what I call inner form. It begins to illuminate itself, and this leads to the surprise of the ending. Gemlike is no cliche applied to this poem. As I read it anyway (see tdevelyn.com for essays on inner form).

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