| Poem for Saturday |
[Mar. 29th, 2003|11:13 am] |
As the Living Are to the Dead
By Pattiann Rogers
A sweet orange, peeled and sectioned,
lies on a plate atop a limestone
boulder covered with lichen
rosettes. A fossil of marine shell,
as if it were a stone heart, holds
and keeps deep inside the central
gravity of that rock. Grit and gravels
are contained, for digestion,
in the living gizzards of all
chickens—Cornish, Leghorn,
Yokohama. Such stones grind
even in the horny-lined gizzards
of fierce fighting gamecocks.
A purple-belled jellyfish drifts
along the sea with the current
of the Gulf Stream; its fair,
poisonous tentacles gracefully
snare and enclose a small prey high
above the motionless rock canyons
of the ocean floor. Within
the calcareous reef-skeletons
of coral catacombs, the surf
alternately advocates and declines.
Some people warm themselves
in winter by burning the black
rock of mortal bodies in the small
braziers of their homes. Tonight,
light from living and dying
stars is the only light shining
on the far-mountainside rocks
scattered across the cold other
side of the fully sun-lit full
moon. On certain spring mornings,
granite headstones speak, luring
many people to place cut May flowers
before their still stone stations.
You are a lion. You're brave and strong and are
usually the leader. You tend to be a bit bossy
at times and for that you end up getting in
most of the fights in your group. Don't worry
too much about it though, your friends still
enjoy you're company.
What's your inner animal?
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