Made Plain
Some affluence...in the poverty of their words.
—Wallace Stevens
No snow-globe
Shakedown,
Or glittered
Burst of birth.
No poverty
Of words,
Half-perceived
In first light,
In darkness,
Or in spooled
Synchronicity
of flight.
No bird-hurdled
Thread soaring
Through sky,
Or dearth
Of life girdled
In dead stars,
Brilliant,
Boundless blight.
No affluence
Richly textured
On the tongue,
Sung just right.
Just plain word
Making—
Dovetailed—
Carpentered—
Or splintered
To reveal
In every
Fragment-
cracked root
Plain truth.
Badass Mermaid
It is no night to drown in
—Lorelei by Sylvia Plath
Blood whirls within
Whorl of ear—
Ocean's sound.
You, profound
And under deep.
Hobgoblin,
Hobbling.
Hobbling there
Before I sleep.
I, in your realm.
A siren—
Not yet, but
Sobbing.
You,
Moving.
Murk,
Darkness,
Spy's lurk.
In winter,
I tumbled there,
Accidentally.
I sang
Within the sea.
Fathomed
I had privacy.
Your ears,
They bled
With my
Song.
Homer's
Odysseus
Told it wrong,
Or his men
Told it,
Innocent.
Their ears
Wax-sealed
Against
All sound.
I, innocent too,
Innocently
Fell asleep.
Dry-iced
Packed
In snow
That does not freeze.
Leagues and leagues deep.
Countless.
(Before that,
Or after—
I don't remember,
And probably pointless—
I used your shampoo.
Smiled, and combed my hair.
Your rage silvered and glinted
On your teeth and eye.
No matter, soon,
Back home,
Spring.
Somehow, I didn't care.)
I slept
Until I woke.
Chrysalis
Cracked
On sea floor.
I, a mermaid—with wings.
Lorelei. Butterfly.
A terrible glistening.
Beauty can be frightening.
I did not know myself.
Knowing all
I could know.
My mind
A mantle
Ripped off
Like a sheet
At night
Became great,
One
Vast
Eye.
Then I could write
Like a seer:
Everything and everywhere.
A messenger.
I do not drown.
Badass Mermaid,
I breathe
Water,
I breathe air.
I derange.
Pitched roofs, pitched reefs.
I say your name, write your nightmare.
Dive back under,
Scaled with your fear.
My tail smacks down.
Flashed lightening,
Ear-rending thunder.
Irritated clam creates
The pearl.
The pearl, in turn, creates me.
Then I create.
Write.
Surrender.
Open a universe, land and sea.
Upper Antelope Canyon
Light shafted womb,
Fire flood
Each layer.
Striature,
Curved flexure.
Muted ocean.
Emptied chamber.
Muscled sweep of sand and sandstone.
Stillness after.
Coolness within heat.
Nothing the same, except
In its essential.
Beam hits one spot or several.
Celestial tumble
in one imperceptible
Inhale, exhale.
Brings us
to important meditation.
What do these lunged branches breathe but a blaze,
Surged through
Incandescent structure?
Our mighty wonder cracks open its delicate shell.
Glow, an expansion, tawny to indigo.
No one listens more intently, or
With more intention,
Than to sounds of their own mortality,
But silence tells us more.
Author's Note: Upper Antelope Canyon, a slot canyon, is located on Navajo land east of Page, Arizona. The Navajo call this canyon Tsé bighánílíní, “the place where water runs through rocks.” Antelope are not among the wildlife here, despite the canyon's name in English. While the canyon in English is called Upper Antelope Canyon, and its companion canyon is called Lower Antelope Canyon, this name derives from the population of pronghorn that once lived in the area. Pronghorn are often referred to as antelope, and its Latin name, Antilocapra americana, means "American goat-antelope." It is, however, not a member of the goat or the antelope family, and is not related to African antelopes.
Rebirth You suspended, Mid-death. A full sun bask. Seed bursts and Births. Sprouts Its green stalk. Egg hatches New life. Naked, blind. Then you Go deep Within. No light, No tunnel. Only rebirth. You awaken, Soft snout Nudging you. Dazzle, Prize truffle From underground. This world vibrates Its re-entry welcome: Hello friend. Your heart Starts its Beat again.
Darkness As sky whittles to darkness, Light still pierces the darkness. That last exit sign, glowing. Red sun in coming darkness. Red moon a remembrance, love. Our spelled passion in darkness. We hew to light's honey, but Sky finally hews to darkness. Amber burgeoning then blues To black. Final rest. Darkness. Phantom sweetness on my tongue, Recalling you, in darkness.
Baffle Gate Dreaming mind, Genius on fire. Still, we can't Escape. What do we desire For its own sake? Every dream, more Than it means. Yet, our unlock Writhes, trapped Within the lock. Our deconstruct, Jungle amok, Mocking muck. Cabinet file Compressed, Darkening spiral, Baffle gate turning One direction only. Bars jamming every Goddamn opening. I want something Simple: fruit for Sweetness not Symbolism. Does that make me A liar as I reach, Knowing how, In this turnstile Gated prison, My fingers can Never touch The bough?
Karen Poppy has work published in The American Journal of Poetry, The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, ArLiJo, Wallace Stevens Journal, and Chaleur Magazine. She has a chapbook forthcoming with Finishing Line Press, and another chapbook forthcoming with Homestead Lighthouse Press. Karen Poppy has also recently compiled her first full-length poetry collection, written her first novel, and is at work on her second poetry collection and second novel. An attorney licensed in California and Texas, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.