by Darla Himeles
Moist leaves in
after-rain
One turns the other
in sensual thrusts
They jolt above the sidewalk
sigh in thunderheartbeats
as they fall
one upon the other
Originally posted 2008-05-08 11:03:31.
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by Darla Himeles
Moist leaves in
after-rain
One turns the other
in sensual thrusts
They jolt above the sidewalk
sigh in thunderheartbeats
as they fall
one upon the other
Originally posted 2008-05-08 11:03:31.
by Darla Himeles
Last month, I wrote about the value in breaking out of forms, of tweaking them to keep them interesting and current. Â This month, I’d like to introduce you to a little form called the fib. Â When we were young, telling or writing fibs was worthy of punishment; with these fibs, there is nothing but satisfaction to be had.
A poet friend introduced me to the fib a couple months ago at a monthly creative gathering we attend. Â The beauty of this form is that anyone can write one; all you need is the ability to count to eight and a bit of inspiration. Â The fib follows the Fibonacci sequence, a series of numbers illuminating biological processes like the development of leaves on a stem, or the formation of pine combs. Â The sequence is of great interest to scientists, musicians, and mathematicians; for the last several decades, it has become increasingly interesting to poets, too, though it has certainly been the base for poems for centuries.
by Darla Himeles
Last week, a friend noted that a couple of odes I’d written were unusually short and focused for the form. Â An ode is traditionally longer than twelve lines, after all, and it is usually musing, philosophical, even meandering. Â It was an observation free from judgment, but it made me curious: what makes an ode an ode?
[keep reading…]
by Darla Himeles
Your mother’s mouth, luscious
oh, forms around her thumb
as she scratches her middle knuckle
with her teeth.
Ah, she mutters, I found her,
as she snatches your earring from the couch.
You, hollowed out and silver,
are holding your own on another couch,
digging into another mouthed oh,
but your mother pockets you anyway
sure in her sense of possession.