Darling we've crept through the bluegrass

Little odd love poem. I think of railroad tracks and rusty water towers:



Darling, we've crept through the bluegrass & we've slipped in the waste slurry, we dug breakfast out of dumpsters & we stole fourteen-hundred dollars from the Grace Street Laundromat. I think it's time we made a child, the way we make starlight out of a bent & pin-pocked Coke can.

Mathias Svalina
Fence magazine 2006


Voices. I hear them.

Silver by Walter de la Mare

When it's dark and the clouds are blowing, who hasn't seen the moon "walking the night"? The "s" sounds create a hushed feel. The moveless fish, the silver reeds—they take me outside on a summer night. A lovely oldie from many childhoods.

Silver

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and a silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

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Child by Sylvia Plath

Everyday words become surprising: ducks, zoo, new, stalk, wrinkle... The final two lines end with the mournful, wailing "ar" sound, apt noises for the sad turn the poem takes. Beautiful.


Child

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose names you meditate ---
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.


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