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More from ~Falareste

On CousinshipI once showed my friend an Oreo cake
in every sense of the word—Oreo-shaped,
though wide around as my waist,
with four thick, crushed-Oreo layers
stacked amongst Oreo-cream filling
embedded with more crushed Oreos,
and the whole thing lathered over
with icing (Oreo-flavored, I presume)
and garnished with Oreos,
two per slice, not counting the minis
and uncountable crushed Oreos. I said,
Now, that is America on a plate,
and he, though he was British, laughed
as well,
and I could not help but think
of old Jefferson, his time-eaten bones rattling
at the double insult. Old Jefferson, who they said
was weak-voiced, but a talented writer
nonetheless—one who might appreciate irony,
perhaps, that didn't involve the British.
He and the others—
how, I wonder, would they react
if I told them, told the sailors, the soldiers, 
the citizens, Patriot and Loyalist alike—told them all
that this morning, 
at a university named for the First General,
a man spo
small heresiesthis morning in General Chemistry
while trying to keep up with the professor
I wrote in pen accidentally
The three-dimensional particle-
in-a-box model is a god
a good model for predicting the behavior
of a matter wave confined to a region in space
and would have stopped to further scribble it out
if I had not remembered where I was.
Harvest SongOnce, I was the plain
where badgers napped among twining roots,
where voles wrestled beneath the grasses,
and where the elk roamed, stately at dawn.
And I was the plain
where meadowlarks nestled against the earth.
I was the plain
of asters, smooth and willow,
of blue vervain and blue-eyed grass,
of sawtooth sunflowers and wild onions,
of compass plants,
of obedience plants,
of orange milkweed blooms that flew—
and, of course, the grain.
(At that time, we saw only the grain.)
Sometimes, I was the plain
and you were the hawk—
and your wings covered the summer sky
and the sun shone from between your feathers
and the grain bent and swayed, bent and fluttered
and shone with the dance of gold upon gold!
(Only the gold of falling stalks could rival that gold.)
Now, I am the plain
alone—hawkless, and grainless. 
I am the plain
where the grass 
has failed to regrow—I am the plain
where only wind stirs 
the dust—
though one can hear,
fr
Integration by PartsTo trace, in deep gray, the curves and hooks
of silent numbers, is to invoke
the whorls of seashells, edges stiff
as curled rulers. Slide a graphite tip
along the length of a snake, and there
you'll find a bucket rising from a well
or leaves fluttering from a wind-tossed tree,
sketching arcs in the cooling air. Somewhere,
a scrap of paper rots at the root
of a creaking tower; somewhere,
a stallion, against a star-domed sphere, strikes
his angled hoof—and sings, and louder sings.
Fever DreamIn my restless sleep, I beheld a ring
Of prismatic mountains, their shining peaks
Ambitious in height like the faded stars
Swallowed by the glow of the rose-tinged sky.
At that assembly's center laid a lake
Mirror-like, or a mirror like a lake.
At its banks, trees and flowers like sculptures
Gazed at themselves. The air hung warm, humid,
And like the lake-mirror, utterly still.
And out of the unchanging dawn, there soared
A bird with wings wide like the horizon,
With feathers like coals, or tongues of flame
Burning, blazing like eyes—green and glaring—
It gave the world an unreadable look
And dove—and gales poured forth from its searing flight
To ring among the mountaintops—to drive
The lingering clouds—to fling the stiff growth—
And yet, the lake-mirror laid smooth and bright,
But brightened and brightened as the bird fell—
Wings and water, both brilliant as eyes!
And all the world erupted in radiance—
Oh, radiance! Mou
GlimpseA god before the pigeons
stoops, his small hands full of bread,
crumbs dripping like thick sand,
falling like distant rain. I saw him
leap forward, and in some fever dream
saw the birds soaring to meet him
and carry him upwards, into the sky
and over the world, breadcrumbs
overflowing, and falling like rain.

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June 29, 2012
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Tanka I

:iconfalareste:

a swan, snow-feathered,
you seemed, until you molted
to reveal a duck
with feathers like the mountain:
snow melting, lilies blooming

:iconfalareste:
A small gift for my sister. :heart:

--
Tanka: a form of Japanese classical poetry. Like the haiku, it traditionally follows a set syllable scheme (5/7/5/7/7 for tanka) and employs vivid, specific imagery, often from nature. In addition, there is often a thematic shift midway in the poem.

For more information on tanka:
:bulletgreen:About Tanka and Its History by Amelia Fielden
:bulletgreen:Notes on Form, Techniques, and Subject Matter by Michael McClintock
:bulletgreen:Teika's Ten Tanka Techniques by Jane Reichhold

Find more articles and examples of tanka at:
:bulletgreen:Tanka Online
:bulletgreen:The Tanka Society of America
:bulletgreen:American Tanka

My tanka gallery: [link]
:iconladyofgaerdon:
=LadyofGaerdon Nov 10, 2012  Professional Writer
:wave: Hi! Your piece has been featured in #Lit-Visual-Alliance's Sixth Allied Artwork Feature! Please :+fav: the article to bring attention to the feature. Thank you for being a part of the Alliance! :salute:
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