autodidacticpoet
Autodidactic Poet
self-taught poetry student
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Wooroloo by Frieda Hughes, from the collection of the same name.
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Wild oats pale as peroxide lie down among
The bottle brushes. A beaten army, bleaching.
Life bled into the earth already, and seeds awaiting.
Stiff little spiked children wanting water.
Above the creek that split apart the earth
With drunken gait and crooked pathway,
Kookaburras sit in eucalyptus. Squat and sharp-throated
They haggle maggots and branches from ring-necked parrots.
I have watched the green flourish twice, and die,
And the marsh dry. In this valley I have been hollowed out
And mended. I echo in my own emptiness like a tongue
In a bird’s beak. My words are all gone.
Out of my mouth comes this dumb kookaburra laugh.
How my feathers itch.
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Kookaburra by Frieda Hughes. From her collection Wooroloo
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So big in life, head like a chopping block
Beak like a carving knife,
His hysterical voice cracked branches, his laugh
Stripped bark from the wood-borers
But in the twilight something got him,
So close to the house I should have heard.
He was left like a taunt, a dead bird
By an empty chicken run.
Now his dusk-stained feathers rock
In their dead-grass cradle,
His bitten body is the flame
From which these moths escape
That beak is buried in the sucked-out skull
Where eyes were lost in another mouth. His small crate,
Ant-eaten already, his ribs like rafters
To welcome flies, and his wings rest like two open fans
Beside him.
Stripped of what made him
He is only a fraction of his noise.
Kookaburra by Frieda Hughes. From her collection Wooroloo.
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Sylvia Plath in a diary entry wr. c. February 1958 from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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The Black Art by Anne Sexton. From her 1962 collection "All My Pretty Ones"
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She asks me to kill the spider.
Instead, I get the most
peaceful weapons I can find.
I take a cup and a napkin.
I catch the spider, put it outside
and allow it to walk away.
If I am ever caught in the wrong place
at the wrong time, just being alive
and not bothering anyone,
I hope I am greeted
with the same kind
of mercy.
-Rudy Francisco
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"Small Wire" by Anne Sexton. Found in her 1975 Collection The Awful Rowing Towards God.
#female poets#anne sexton#poetry#poem#writers and poets#poems and poetry#poems#poetic#poets on tumblr#poetscommunity
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Change is the language spoken
as behemoths collapse without fanfare.
Its history a speck, a moment,
a villanelle in the lines of Didion.
Not a building; a fleeting institution
as wavering as governance.
The culture created, duplicated,
riffed, surpassed, teemed obsolete.
Soon the Sands fulfilled its prophecy
and dropped through the hourglass.
The folies bankrupt and nostalgia preserves
as its walls crash into myth.
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"As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love."
-Anne Sexton
Excerpt from poem "Small Wire"
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Change is the language spoken
as behemoths collapse without fanfare.
Its history a speck, a moment,
a villanelle in the lines of Didion.
Not a building; a fleeting institution
as wavering as governance.
The culture created, duplicated,
riffed, surpassed, teemed obsolete.
Soon the Sands fulfilled its prophecy
and dropped through the hourglass.
The folies bankrupt and nostalgia preserves
as its walls crash into myth.
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