Tuesday, November 22, 2005


Favorite poem of mine (which probably means it's lousy) fresh from rejection, sort of. I had a batch not actually come back at all. They were lost at the pub or on the way back somewhere, or maybe they never made it there in the first place. What's worse: little rejection slip or disappearance into thin air? My total number of submissions out there have now dipped below 20.

About Blackberries
J.B. Rowell

Family tension rose
in rows
in just days

until we reaped
along a path down
to the organic farm,

into a greenhouse
where hints
of pure green

are coaxed
under cover
under grey August sky,

past the heft
of tractors
yellow among green

hills softened by fog
pulling itself over
to soothe sacred land,

to overgrown
blackberry bushes
where we ate standing,

skimming a universe
of tangled life,
a family of deer famished.

Hands to mouth
went the blackest among

on tongue pressed
to palate
skin stained

a surprising red
to be found in nature.
Everyone intent

on their own search,
everyone content
to hunt for their own food.


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