White grass grew like hair
on the scales of the old tree.
Bent limbs bore cherries black
as amethyst glass that burned white holes
in the white grass as the sun passed.
A fox shivered against the stony roots,
sick from eating cherries,
the only food any could find that winter.
So I brought it in.
Beneath the scabs and sucking ticks
I felt a heartbeat like two beads
rattling in a glass. I fed the beast
broth drop by drop from my fingers
till it was strong enough to lift its head
and lap at a thin gruel.
A white crow tapped at the glass,
spying the eyes of the fox
shining like cherries,
like coins to be stolen–but that was the fox’s life,
and it rose in self-defense and hunger
for the unhealthy bird, which lurched away
cawing.
I found the bird much later
on the grass beneath the tree,
white holes full of worms burned in its wings.
The fox sniffed the carcass while
market bells rang, which he feared
as though his pelt were luxurious.
The sound of a hunter’s gun had not been heard
in many months, but each of my heavy steps
frightened the fox.
“I nursed you,” I said. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Winking lights from the cherry tree
blinded me and the fox was gone.
Githara is also angry that it was blocked from your blog, being a devoted fan and all, but understands that it got what it deserves… the demonic One wishes you the best of luck in all your future endeavors… peace – if you can find it within yourself…
Very nice! I wish I had the nerve to write more poetry; for some reason, it’s hard to get the motivation to write it. Stories are easier for me.
I don’t think I blocked any posters, Githara, but I at one point I did shut off all comments for a while and cleaned out the comment threads to remove some that wandered way off topic. If I ever get around to putting together a forum for the site, maybe I will set up an anything goes discussion area. But these comment areas are for commenting on posts, not for wide ranging discussions on other subjects or links to unrelated sites.
Sorry, I’m mentally ill, like a lot of the people in HL 2. I read what I’ve wrote months ago, and see how much nonsense I speak and it’s a shame. I wouldn’t blame you for blocking me when I’m off like that… in fact, thanks for deleting that tripe…
And like J. Dean, I too wish I could write poetry. I really like your more abstract works.
Jing Ke, everytime I attempt poetry, it comes off as hokey. I read something like Marc’s piece above or Stephen King’s “Paranoid: a chant,” and it sounds beautiful. There’s something about putting the right words to rhythmic stanzas that is both beautiful and intimidating.
Keep up the poetry, Marc!