Mourning poem

If I immersed myself in bowers of flowers
could I distract you from the fire?
If I walked between living hedgerows
trailing fingers along shining leaves
breath of laurel and climbing weed
could I remove your bombing dreams?

If I walked with heeled and cosseted foot
slowly calves caressing silk
immersed my neck in great hydrangeas
white hair piled high, a silken floss
cheeks glossed and lips silent moued
accepting proffered letters tied with cord
would your heart
become unfettered?

What if I lay down along the forest floor,
a bed of moss and heaps of sky-tint silk
arrayed my waist to best display the violin-like curve
of softest skin.
would you call off your ships, let love in?

Blue peonies, coral lips
take my skirts of duchess folds,
take trailing heaps of wild-spread rose
lay them on the streets of Tokyo
where the children and their mothers burned
in lakes of pavement.

Keep your eyes on mine
while I lay gazing upon vines
contemplating strokes of ferns and
the importance of plumes in open hand,
a hand of queens in diamond spades and hearts,
the clovers missing.

Foxglove and bordeaux dupioni
keep your eyes upon my elegant hands, my arched feet
the inward petal-soft tilt of my knee
I cannot bear my thoughts, you see
the work of dragging bodies out to burn in heaps
the tiny child no longer sleeps and
I cannot bear the missing clover.

Could I rest here now in golden curls
sunhat’s edge in undulating furls
a shade of poplar, softest light
if the bombs had not fallen?

The earth is growing over me, the longer
I lie still, you see
the fires are burning far from me
in time or place.

Remain, I will change position now
irises, carrickmacross lace
a knowing smile upon my face,
here and I have found the clover
is my position winning you over?

It matters not but I am here
now in calla lilies white and strong
near lotus seeds but nevermind
the rhizomes beneath are not mine
the art was the only thing
that mattered.

Let’s cry ourselves a lake of tears
release ourselves from all our fears
I will wear your ships in my hair
above this abalone face.

Let not

another time

nor place.



Inspiration came from these two pieces in WordPress Reader, this morning:

And also this one, some days before:

Image is by the amazing artist Alexia Sinclair (who featured in Perfect-Style-Knower’s post above).


Nadine inhales & exhales words & images from current vantage point in Zone of Emptiness, France. Thank you for reading. ❤︎

14 thoughts on “Mourning poem

  1. I love the purples, and then the catchy broken rhythm. It delights my heart encountering a piece which diverts from traditional and stereotypical poetry. Greet job Nadine 👏 👏 😁😎

    Liked by 1 person

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