Trish Lindsey's comments (member since Feb 15, 2009)

Trish Lindsey's comments from the ¡ POETRY ! group.

when geese arrow
out of the south
fill the air
with their long call?

From James Wright's "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota"

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.


Hurts me to the quick every time I read those lines--particularly the last one.
tlj

Gabrielle wrote: "David wrote: "
Blind Date

I was expecting
Armani, but she came in
wearing Doc Martens."

I love the brevity, but I would have also loved to have known your reaction.
"
Seems this is a haiku--and, I agree, a well-done one at that.
tlj

Tony wrote: "Hannah, I really like your form and flow here in Hitching a Crush."

I agree. It took a couple of reads before I could leap from the text to the genius, but it's definitely there. Cummings-style. Very nice!
tlj

Gabrielle wrote: "Trish Lindsey wrote: "
The Murmuring of the Stones

I know the earth, collect it,
gather it loosely
in bags; rocks, the tightness of stones’

years, secrets pressed, earthbaked
ridges and rounds, b..."

I think it's beautiful.
Thank you, Gabrielle!

and a single chair
that faces the brown stagger
of bricks just outside the window

David wrote: "
Trish Lindsey wrote: "
The Murmuring of the Stones

I know the earth, collect it,
gather it loosely
in bags; rocks, the tightness of stones’

years, secrets pressed, earthbaked
ridges and..."
Thank you, David!

But not really "at home," just makin' do at yet another cheap motel which rents "life for life."

Mukesh wrote: "Annette wrote: "WHAT????????????"

What do you mean by "WHAT?????????""
I think that Annette's "WHAT????" was connected to the COMPLETELY disjointed lines before it. I could be wrong . . . and stand corrected, if so. :)

Daniel wrote: "
we buy the poster at the gift shop, saunter
past it, further back, once more, then emerge
from the garage, that fierce assertion captive
in the trunk.

it might take months
to find a wall ..."

Ooo, Daniel, I like this. Very much.

The Murmuring of the Stones

I know the earth, collect it,
gather it loosely
in bags; rocks, the tightness of stones’

years, secrets pressed, earthbaked
ridges and rounds, boulders,
layers of chips and gravel.

Even as a child, I wanted the earth
to tell its secrets, let loose the grains,
rattle in my bag, the clicking of tongues

like mothers telling children to behave,
like cocking hammers of guns,
like people turning to dust, dust to stone,

their cold bones warming
in my hand, my hand cooling
around them, their fossils pressed

in my palm, rivers of lifelines
etched deeper than skin,
deeper than bone;

beneath the cracking crust, red ages beat
the drums of clubs, of arrows, of daggers;
the lead, the shrapnel, glint in dying

light, earth folding in,
walls of stone
coming undone;

those who went
are coming home, on this gravel road,
quartz sun-winking, begging

for my hand, my bag. There’s room.
I choose stones because I can’t leave them,
because they are

different from each other
even those clawed from the face of one
mountain; stones lie

by simply not telling
the truth, the way moss is green
without sun, the way a stone

eddies the rush of river,
the way stones crush each other,
mix and press new stones, pursefuls

of limestone and sand, finite and infinite
roads and footpaths, disappearing, stolen,
a grit at a time.


As we leave the river and take the gravel
path back to the car, my body a comma
against my bag’s weight,

you open the driver’s door for me, help me
unhook the bag from its dent in my shoulder, ask
“What do you have in there—rocks?”

and I throw back my head and laugh . . .

by Trish Lindsey Jaggers

and his hunger ran deep,
deeper than vein, deeper
than bone

The wind catches, lifts a feather,
and only one old man sees its flight.

An umber leaf, snagged
on the rosebush
before it could reach
the earth

And who speaks all tongues.

I thumb a pocket translator and add
"ich spreche nicht Deutsch,"
and even though I took German in college,
it fades, like paint on the ceiling
when water overtakes it

Jé wrote: "You are right in one thing, my intention is not to divide. It is to solve a problem.

Because a rhyming poem does not exist in the final poems does not mean that there is a policy of exclusion. ... I love rhyming poetry. But not all of it. And it shouldn't be included just because it exists. It should be included because it is good."

Well said, my friend.

Trish

algae strains through recent whitewash

So many good poems were posted this month that I would not have wanted the task of whittling them down to nine . . .

While all these warrant merit, I am wowed by "Day of the Dead" and "Grassland." I'm not going to vote so quickly this early in the morning. I need more coffee, time to chew on them. This is a tough one, Amy!
tlj

Interesting how this poem actually flows! Yes, great fun!