May 2016
When I give local readings I am often introduced as the garden poet, because I tend to see life through the lens of a natural setting and my poems often reflect my propensity for gardening. Not surprisingly, the first of my poems to see print was in Fine Gardening magazine in 2001. Since then I’ve been publishing routinely in the small press (Ibbetson Street, Atlanta Review, and Poetry East, to name a few). I’ve authored 2 chapbooks which are listed on my website: lindamfischer.com
Zinnias
I am moved to say that beauty
resides in a bouquet of zinnias
I’ve placed just outside
my kitchen window to catch
the sun as it steals their fire:
giant zinnias I grow
from seed, bold as brass—
oranges and reds, hot
pinks, gold—arranged
in an old ceramic jug
daubed in cream, cerulean
blues and green—nature
and art arrayed in harmony.
Always my mother’s favorites,
they remind me of what more
I might have done before
her sense of color damped:
looked harder for the seeds
I could never seem to find,
planted enough for her to pick
with impunity. How small a thing
it seemed when her gardens levied
as much as my hands could grasp.
Thoughtlessly I let slip
a springtime and then another
until the issue of zinnias lapsed.
Time—that marauding thief—
would claim those gardens,
the house and life she had always
known, and bring me late
the elusive seeds she’d coveted—
the zinnias I learned to cultivate
in gardens of my own. How is it
that I never appreciated their frank
exuberance in quite the way
my mother had? How like her
to hold out for them—and in the end
bind me to their prodigal beauty.
-first published in Glory (Finishing Line Press)
I am moved to say that beauty
resides in a bouquet of zinnias
I’ve placed just outside
my kitchen window to catch
the sun as it steals their fire:
giant zinnias I grow
from seed, bold as brass—
oranges and reds, hot
pinks, gold—arranged
in an old ceramic jug
daubed in cream, cerulean
blues and green—nature
and art arrayed in harmony.
Always my mother’s favorites,
they remind me of what more
I might have done before
her sense of color damped:
looked harder for the seeds
I could never seem to find,
planted enough for her to pick
with impunity. How small a thing
it seemed when her gardens levied
as much as my hands could grasp.
Thoughtlessly I let slip
a springtime and then another
until the issue of zinnias lapsed.
Time—that marauding thief—
would claim those gardens,
the house and life she had always
known, and bring me late
the elusive seeds she’d coveted—
the zinnias I learned to cultivate
in gardens of my own. How is it
that I never appreciated their frank
exuberance in quite the way
my mother had? How like her
to hold out for them—and in the end
bind me to their prodigal beauty.
-first published in Glory (Finishing Line Press)
The Poet's Garden Party
Imagine the month of May
against falls of iris—
ruffled lingerie in lavender,
the palest yellow, white,
sultry purples—plumes
of coral bells, spires
of foxglove, a flush of roses…
Imagine, too, a procession
above the freshest green as we,
attired in white, admire
ballooning peonies, then
over iced tea and lemonade
taste the poetry of gardens
with lace cookies and macaroons.
Imagine, as we do, intoning
Marvell’s brave boast:
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green—
celebrating undisputed masters
in whose language we toast
the ways by which we choose to live.
Imagine the month of May
against falls of iris—
ruffled lingerie in lavender,
the palest yellow, white,
sultry purples—plumes
of coral bells, spires
of foxglove, a flush of roses…
Imagine, too, a procession
above the freshest green as we,
attired in white, admire
ballooning peonies, then
over iced tea and lemonade
taste the poetry of gardens
with lace cookies and macaroons.
Imagine, as we do, intoning
Marvell’s brave boast:
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green—
celebrating undisputed masters
in whose language we toast
the ways by which we choose to live.
Peachy
Peachy. I always wanted to sound colloquial
in a poem, less pedantic. Fine, I say: peachy keen.
But what I'm thinking about is the color—not a pink or
common salmon—peachy like the deciduous azalea
I hoisted into the trunk of my car (one blossom so far).
The word does double duty: it's also the way I feel.
Next I may choose pale yellow even if it softens
my palette—the color so diffident, so compelling.
Frankly, Ferns
Flipping through a lexicon for the home garden,
I find myself lingering over ferns—their many-fingered
fronds waving at me, an unabashed come-on.
Humdrum no longer, they’re billed as pert
exotics: they’ve come out of the woodland closet,
displaying their erotic underpinnings as if they’d
conspired with Victoria’s Secret and picked up
a few of her tricks—a fern for every occasion,
some I admit to having acquired. To whit: maidenhair—
so demure—a dainty specimen I’ve paired with lady;
Japanese painted fern—coy as a Geisha—
and her pale cousin ghost, both settling
into bed together companionably, but I may go
for a threesome with dryopteris in close proximity—
it sounds drop-dead easy, or prepared to take
some rough handling—appealing either way.
Now, here’s a tempting number--hart’s tongue,
something of a braggart: a hardy “evergreen terrestrial”
tagged as perennially “fresh and erect.” Bearing
little resemblance to its brethren, it reflects a soupçon
of impertinence, likely, I think, to insinuate itself
into any social situation—its abundant foliage
“neatly puckered” as if it had every expectation of getting
a big sloppy kiss. Who could resist?
-first published in Glory (Finishing Line Press)
©2016 Linda M. Fischer