Isolation: cold word, with ice in its veins,
not to mention that other sound, “shun,”
at the end. I think of all those rhymed
relatives: nation, duration, desolation,
ovulation, creation—dozens
of cousins, those blood relations
bound to us by skeins of sound.
Alone, cut off from you, loves,
there’s not much to do but study
a patch of jonquils, seven in all,
half-hidden by an upturned wheelbarrow
at the corner of the toolshed,
their white sockets frilled, rain-spotted,
splashed by in-and-out sun.
Why have I, after all these years,
only now noticed them? Who,
before we came on the scene,
planted them in this out-of-the-way spot?
In isolation, there can be solace,
even as the dying die alone,
even as the dead have no place
to rest, exhausted by their tribulation.
Then there are the other dead,
the red-caps crammed in the town square
howling approval when the king
waves his rubbery arms, shrugs and grins,
ripping sense from every ruined sentence,
spitting back nonsense to wild applause.
I’m thankful for a certain kind
of solitary confinement, the kind
where we’re close by being far.
Here, then, are seven jonquils.
Here’s sunlight on their flared skirts.
I give you their stillness, their brief lives.
When they nod, I give you the wind.
“The Year of the Plague: A Letter,” first appeared in the inaugural issue of Light, an online literary journal published by Lauren Grosskopf, publisher of Pleasure Boat Studio press.
This reminds me of what writing we have of the Anglo-Saxons who, from what I remember, loved coming into an abandoned village, or even a hut or remnants of a pier, and wonder who left them there, why they left them, and who were they?
Why have I, after all these years,
only now noticed them? Who,
before we came on the scene,
planted them in this out-of-the-way spot?
Thank you, Eugene, for your kind words about my poem.
All best,
Ed
Thank you, Eugene, for your kind words about my poem.
All best,
Ed
Thanks, Eugene, for your kind words.
Best,
Ed
Thanks, Eugene, for your kinds words.
Best,
Ed
Sorry about the repetitons. I couldn’t figure out whether or not my comment of thanks got posted; hence, I kept trying over and over…turns out they were all being posted. Sheesh.
I had never noticed the shun in isolation. That I shall remember.
I also have found a solace, at times, in isolation. It can lead to a meditative state, as I sensed in this poem.
Thank you.