STRAY POEM
after reading Dominique Hecq’s Transformations
https://conversationinpoetry.blogspot.com.au/2018/03/dominique-hecq-8-transformations.html
Lost poem.
Intaglio’d. Code.
Poem
Rigged as a sail. Stretched onto canvas.
A dandelion, wheeling through the air
On its hollow-trellised spokes.
Daisy bells
In the wayward grass.
Medieval may-day dance flags.
A child’s garden posie.
In black earth, the grail-shaped husks
Of poppy: the forbidden, red-lipped kind,
Black centred.
Seeds of sweetpeas from a friend
Shaken from their heritage brown paper packet
Sprout in the greenhouse, arrows pointing skyward
In defiance of mushroom clouds, Putin,
And the rest of them.
The child is counting hours
on a daisy-petal wheel.
She’s lost in book knowledge,
among paint brushes.
Learning to place colour
in order on a palette.
What else matters?
The innocence of children.
A conversation in poetry involves a bunch of poets and fellow travellers (e.g. painters, photographers, translators) in an informal conversation taking the form of the work itself; that is, people respond in kind to each other’s creative efforts.
(This poem was somehow “allowed” into being after reading the simple beauty of Dominique Hecq #8 Transformations, which took me to a far away space. Far away from the daily news and disaster forecasts. It’s the first poem I have managed to write in a while. Sorry for my silence, I have been reading you all though :)
ReplyDeletemy contribution was but a translation, but I'm glad it carried something extra across. I love the way you weave politics into a lyrical meditation on art aesthetics and history
ReplyDeleteThanks, Dominique. I've been reworking it, would love your feedback as to whether this is an improvement or not?
ReplyDeleteThe innocent
Intaglio’d
with code,
a dandelion wheels through the air
on its hollow-trellised spokes –
a lost poem
in the wayward grass
rigged as a sail, stretched onto canvas,
a child’s garden posie,
a medieval may-day dance flag.
In black earth,
grail-shaped husks of poppy
– the forbidden, red-lipped kind,
black centred
– wait.
Heritage sweet-peas from a friend,
shaken from their brown paper packet
sprout in the greenhouse,
arrows pointing skyward
in defiance of mushroom clouds, Putin
and the rest of them.
A child is counting hours
on a daisy-petal wheel,
lost in book knowledge
among paint brushes,
learning to place colour,
in order, on a palette.
What else matters?