That Place There: by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard
Tag: Bonnie McClellan
Trigger Warning: grief
Share this:
In Vocation of the Muse II: by Bonnie McClellan
In my map of things you are confounded with
grey-green clouds
pressing against
bright ground,
like Shiva’s foot.
Creating – uncreating
spring.
Though properly your colours belong
to summer of golden
gulf-beach sand and
blazing,
hephaestian-hematite sweat
against the cuffs and
collar of
field, cotton white and
August sky or shallow
water running over
stones.
Share this:
Implied subject || sottofondo: by Bonnie McClellan
It is the thing that lies under
under lies
below the foundation
like a time signature
signalling in silence:
there
there
there
there
we are.
È la cosa che sta sotto
sotto stante.
sotto il fondo.…….
come il tempo quaternario
segnalando in silenzio
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
siamo.
Share this:
Memory of Water
Every stone bears the memory of water
within its mineral bones
time stamped with the fluid trace
of a flickering-blind magnetic north.
Share this:
21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia – by Bonnie McClellan
21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia
everything stilled
the world has stopped
a spring
crowned with silence.
Share this:
On the occasion of the municipality posting a letter asking people to pay their cemetery dues – by Bonnie McClellan
On the occasion of the municipality posting a letter asking people to pay their cemetery dues
Boxes of disremembered bones
expatriated into/out of locus
sad berth
the heartbreak of a January
blossoming cherry.
Share this:
Paranoia by Bonnie McClellan
Paranoia
Her eyes slide to the side
like a Sienese saint
Painted by the brothers who died in the plague
back when there were 100 stories to tell
while bodies rotted,
left where they fell.
Escape into a place where
we can’t smell
we can’t feel
we can’t fear
But she’s convinced it’s coming:
selfie snapping
facial mapping
the lost weekend
the bottom
of the barrel.
Share this:
A Belated Poem for International Women’s Day
Her hair is like a flag,
like an olive branch,
distinguished by its colour,
(unique but the same,
as so many others),
flapping in the wind
fruitlessly offering
peace.
Share this:
Cloud Towers
Thunder is grumbling down again,
Out of that un-ironed pile of forgotten clouds,
towering over the Alps.
Sweltering, breaking heat
A few 11 o’clock fireworks,
Even here.
.
.
.
.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 