Once I was lost in Norfolk mist that dims the view of wherrymen, grips you like a watery fist and pulls you further to the fen. I left her at the cottage door, waving with her handkerchief; it was the very last time she saw me, my darling widowed wife. But I still wander past […]
Tag: Tuesday Poetics
Bridging Seasons
Winter walked a thin, tight lightamong skeletal trees, so brightagainst the ashen sky. Quietsnowflakes painted branches white ~or were they glittering stars? ~ fluttering petals, opening buds,kissed by sun emerged from cloudsand birds that greeted spring aloud –to leave us fresh and greenly boughed. Kim M. Russell, 27th April 2021 My response to dVerse Poets […]
Crows Calling at Night
Crows in the boughs remind her of her distant home, the man she left behind. Perhaps he listens to the patter of the rain, the cawing of the roosting birds, and thinks of her. So alone, she lies down on her bed, her crow black eyes like stones. Kim M. Russell, 20th April 2021 Image […]
Traces of an Elephant’s Tears (Empathy)
I feel the tears, although there is only a trace now. Just like the baby elephant, alone in the zoo, abandoned with only a memory of the mother it will never forget. And what about the mother’s tears? The tears of the herd? It is not absurd that my maternal instinct rears in despair at […]
Adrift
You square no one, rain and earthneglect the thrust and seduction ofyour repulsive cell. Always adrift inthe same vast night, nobody putsup a fight and sits tight, cosmosand black hole of anybody’s wrongdestroying another darkness, horneffects of addiction, after you misseach other. Sit it out for the first time […]
Soap Opera
The machine rumbles,bubbles with the scentof her favourite detergent,lending lightness to the drudgery,the air soap-shimmeryin a slant of spring sun. He sits on the oppositebench in the launderettewatching his washing tumblein the drier with a syncopatedrhythm, the clunk and clickof buttons and zips. The drier stops.She smiles, handshim a basket,into which he dropseach item. All […]
A Painter Without a Brush
Without a brush,how could a painter fleshout spectral fingers of left-over snow,dab them with early sun’s glow,or stroke lines of slender hazel treesablaze with catkins, golden with bees? And yet, there they are, scrapedas if they had escapedfrom canvas, pressedand dragged, distressedand burningcapturingevery summer, autumn, winter, spring,all life erupting. Kim M. Russell, 23rd March 2021 […]
The Art of Being Human
This being human is a circus trick.Day after day you perfect your act:a t i g h t r o p e w a l kbetween now and then,a flourish,and then back again,one foot in front of the other.It’s juggling swords,eating fiery words,putting your head in a lion’s mouthand inhaling its meaty breath.It’s the highsand […]
To the young poet of the future
Dear poet, I picture you gazing at a star, concerned that you are still so far from being the poet you wish to become. From my position of restrospection I promise that your journey is the best lesson: you will be buffeted by storms and squalls, fluctuations in the weather of the soul, soothed by […]
The Oblivion of Snow
‘For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.’ Wallace Stevens It started with a silent flake, a branched crystal, not unlike a flower or a tree, or the paper doily cut-outs grandma used to make. It started with a snowflake, but […]
