February 2017
Barbara Crooker
bcrooker@ix.netcom.com
bcrooker@ix.netcom.com
The first poem is on the theme, and is from a book that will come out in 2019. The second poem is one making its first appearance in a journal, and is in my new book, Les Fauves: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1936196697/?tag=barbaracrooke-20 May this be a year of new beginnings for everyone on Verse-Virtual.
Beginning
Monks worked on the monastery farm until the bell
from the round tower summoned them to prayer. . . .
-Exploring the Book of Kells, George Otto Simms
I’m here at this plain oak desk, black slate insert, two large
windows looking out at a green hillside brazen with daffodils:
Ireland, early spring. Three pairs of blackbirds, in the bare trees,
chuckling companionably, remind me that I am alone.
Off to the left, a rectangular tower that isn’t calling me to prayer.
Unless, as the monks have said, ora et labora, work is a form
of prayer. But here I am, empty-handed, open-hearted,
scratching black lines on yellow paper, and hoping that somehow,
like the newly-hatched frogs in the ornamental pond,
I will be able to croak my way into song.
Beginning
Monks worked on the monastery farm until the bell
from the round tower summoned them to prayer. . . .
-Exploring the Book of Kells, George Otto Simms
I’m here at this plain oak desk, black slate insert, two large
windows looking out at a green hillside brazen with daffodils:
Ireland, early spring. Three pairs of blackbirds, in the bare trees,
chuckling companionably, remind me that I am alone.
Off to the left, a rectangular tower that isn’t calling me to prayer.
Unless, as the monks have said, ora et labora, work is a form
of prayer. But here I am, empty-handed, open-hearted,
scratching black lines on yellow paper, and hoping that somehow,
like the newly-hatched frogs in the ornamental pond,
I will be able to croak my way into song.
Oleanders, 1888
~Vincent Van Gogh
He thought oleanders were life-affirming,
didn’t know they were poisonous, like
that mean girl in high school with the caustic
tongue, her ability to slip a knife to the ribs
when you’d least expect it. I’ve met her again
in other guises in this writing life. For Vincent,
the color yellow meant sun, health, happiness—
and look, in the left hand corner, there’s a copy
of Zola’s Le Joie de Vivre with its glowing
yellow cover. Zola, Cézanne’s childhood friend,
who’s waiting just outside the frame, preparing
to stab him in the back with a venomous review.
Behind the creamy pink and white flowers,
the paint on the wall spreads its acid, grins.
~Vincent Van Gogh
He thought oleanders were life-affirming,
didn’t know they were poisonous, like
that mean girl in high school with the caustic
tongue, her ability to slip a knife to the ribs
when you’d least expect it. I’ve met her again
in other guises in this writing life. For Vincent,
the color yellow meant sun, health, happiness—
and look, in the left hand corner, there’s a copy
of Zola’s Le Joie de Vivre with its glowing
yellow cover. Zola, Cézanne’s childhood friend,
who’s waiting just outside the frame, preparing
to stab him in the back with a venomous review.
Behind the creamy pink and white flowers,
the paint on the wall spreads its acid, grins.
©2016 Barbara Crooker
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