Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VII. Tishomingo Granite

Tishomingo Granite

From the Quarry at Tishomingo
Comes this Pre-Cambrian intrusion
Begotten when the first rain dropped on boiling rock.
Only later to be named
With sounds recalling some child’s summer game.
These random elements, the stuff of stars
Cooled by Bowen’s ruled order (though he was not invented yet)
Pyroxene first, then salmon coloured plagioclase;
Last, cloudy silicate of common quartz
All this a billion years ago.
You know I loved you even then;
The day this rock was formed.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: V. Dream/Moted/Motet

DREAM / MOTED / MOTET

The air is saffron with moted dust.

We sit

(on a bale of used clothing

raised and round as a dais).

Joined at the hip,

Gemini’s twins

but with legs facing out, opposite,

mirror fashion.

Left arms crossed inwards,

left hands rest

lightly on the other’s right hip;

I can feel the familiar arc of it

humming through cotton and skin,

the current of relief

turns over the silent, glacial lake within.

We are thisclose

(heads bowed, our temples almost touch).

Your face broken into cubist planes by proximity

seeing the whole would mean

dividing a fraction.

 

From the corner of the room

she’s looking at me;

Madonna Dolorosa,

cheeks as pink as Fra Angelico’s

forbidden mistress.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: III. Eau de Vie/Spirits

Eau de Vie

J’aime bien cette image (ce tableau?)
d’un homme nu et beau
au bain chaud…ses mains, inoubliables
comme ses yeux – les deux,
plein de ma poésie…
C’est assez á dire qu’enfin
les pages ont perdu,
mouillé,
disparues.

Je viendrai et lui retrouverai
reconquérir le territoire
de chaque phrase,
chaque mot,
chaque virgule,
et chaque point.
Je suis sûr que leurs sont inscrits
à la surface de sa chair,
et mes mains, mes yeux, mes lèvres
retrouveront encore
chacun.

Spirits

It pleases me this image (this scene?)
of a man, bare, beautiful
in a steaming bath…his hands as unforgettable
as his eyes – both full
of my poetry…
Enough to say that in the end
the pages are lost
drenched,
dispersed.

I will come and find him again
reconquer the territory
of each sentence,
each word,
each comma,
and full-stop.

I’m sure they are inscribed
on the surface of his skin
and my eyes, my hands, my lips
will find again
each one.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: II. In Sommnus

In Sommnus

Who is the patron saint
of a good night’s sleep?
I need to know the correct
department to direct
my prayers when it does no good
to count the cadence of my thoughts like sheep.

Orphan poetry or Paradise lost: I. Back Garden

Back Garden

I wish I had the patient will to unwind the miles
of iron spider’s thread that binds my love of you,
cuttingly
to my best-favoured pound of flesh.

I had a dream the morning before I left:
we touched each other so slowly that
a millennium might have passed
before my palm traversed
the radiant tenderness of your back.

You spoke to me in single words that expanded
downward like saturated leaves through still water
towards which I swam against
the natural buoyancy of awakenedness
that is unforgivingly attracted by dilating light
and found myself standing
in the wet grass of my friends’ back garden
smoking my third Gauloises.

I see a single strand of spider’s silk
resinous with dew;
well anchored.
Out of some odd, perhaps misplaced respect
for its unbroken beauty
and its slender strength.
I press four fingers against its sticky, resilient length;
I make it bend,
but do not make it break.

copyright 2011 bonnie mcclellan all rights reserved

Veronica

Summer débutante’s gown

grown shy

blushing falls

thrilling leaf by burnishing leaf

spinning through Constables’ light

grace-full arms:

bare/baring/embarrassed

brace/bracing/embrace

November.

In Vocation of the Muse: Page One

In Vocation of the Muse by B. McClellan

In Vocation of the Muse

poetry by Bonnie McClellan

Illustrations by Matthew Broussard

02smoking copyright Matthew Broussard

Invocation of the Reader

This song is written for an audience of one.
for your eyes and your mouth alone;
in hope that you may catch
the cadence of my breath
in rhythm of these words,
as I felt Dante’s breath, weighted
against my lips, chanting out
a novena of tercets, beginning:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
che la diritta via era smarrita.

The straight path also lost to me,
I follow the sound of my voice
whispered across your lips.
Trembling at the gates of hell,
inside the silent center of this caesura
we inhale.

poems © Bonnie M. McClellan
images © Matthew Broussard

 

ALL OTHER POEMS FROM THE SERIES “In Vocation of the Muse” have been removed from this blog. If you would like to order a bound copy of the book complete with colour illustrations at a cost of 25.00 EURO ($35 USD) + postage and handling please contact me at: bmcclellan.lapoeta@gmail.com

Good Morning

Good Morning

still considering
after 4 brief
sleeping hours
if it is
that.
perhaps,
“tolerable morning”
the old phrase
in some slop-time
three-leggéd waltz:
“plenty of time.”
“je dormerai”
“quando
saremo morti.

 

How to choose wood or pumpkins…

I’ve learned two things since coming to Italy that make the cold weather more tolerable: how to pick pumpkins that are just right for cooking and how to select firewood. In case you need to know…

Pick a pumpkin that seems heavy for it’s size, the knobbly ones are the sweetest. You can’t carve them for jack o’ lanterns but they make mouthwatering risotto that will make even a 4 year old ask for a piece of bread for ‘la scarpetta’

On the contrary, firewood should be light for its size…weight is not an indicator of density but rather an indicator of how wet and/or full of sap the wood is. Wet or green wood is not useless, it will slow down an overly hot fire if you have a closed wood-burning stove.

 Now, if you feel like settling in to a nice cosy dinner for two by the fire, here’s the pumpkin risotto recipe as taught to me by my sweetie:

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Pumpkin Risotto for 2
1 small knobbly pumpkin cut into ½ in. chunks – approx 2 cups (if you can’t find a good pumpkin, butternut squash is fine)
3-4 cups chicken or vegetable broth
olive oil
½ onion finely chopped
2/3 cups of arborio rice (or other rice for risotto)
1 heaping tablespoon of butter
¼ cup grated Parmesan
if you can find a good, small knobbly pumpkin (not the big smooth orange ones which tend to be watery and tasteless) cut it into cubes, 1.5-2 cm. put a small pot of good broth (Chicken or vegetable) on the burner and in another, medium sized saucepan simmer half a finely chopped onion. when the onions are almost transparent put the pumpkin in there (for a risotto for 2 people, you’ll want about 2 cups of pumpkin. (if you can’t find a good pumpkin, butternut squash is fine) once the pumpkin starts to soften, it may soak up all the oil from the onions, at which point, add a ladle-full of the broth and simmer until it’s all soft but not completely pudding. throw in 2/3 cup of rice for risotto: vallone nano, arborio etc.) and stir continuously into the pumpkin, so that it soaks up all of the oil and moisture from the first simmering. then pour in a ladle of the broth at a time, and continue to stir evenly as the rice soaks up all of the liquid and cooks together with the pumpkin, making a creamy, starchy glop. it should take about 35 minutes to get the rice to the point where the pumpkin is almost completely dissolved into the orange gloppy mass of rice,but the individual grains of rice are still “al dente” under your teeth. it usually takes about 3 cups of broth. when the the rice is still a bit terse but has made a lovely creamy goo around itself, turn off the heat and add an abundant tablespoon of butter and about 1/4 cup of freshly grated Parmesan. stir it all together well and let it sit while you prepare the table (5 min. is perfect)