jillypoet: mom trying to write

Each day I wish I had invented waterproof sticky notes (for shower inspiration) or pen-friendly diapers to get down all my quirky thoughts that I am sure are relevant and publishable. And so God (actually another writer-mommy) sent me The Blog.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Winter Poem

We live inside the cold
even as we tear our clothes off
from the heat. It slithers
away from warmth, the cold,
in great, writhing arcs,
even as icy daggers form
on its backside,
a demented rattlesnake fleeing
what it needs,
shaking and singing
a sad song,
the whole frozen way.
A trio of gray squirrels
wave their voluptuous tails
in passing.
A school of trout
woolen in their winter scales,
part, as the lone predator
slides below the thin ice
of an abandoned pond.
The snake licks its wounds,
dissolves in a hot bath
of its own, lonely blood.

6 Comments:

Blogger aimee said...

Hi there, Jillypoet. Sure thing--if you need to contact me, use madisonaimee at yahoo dot com.

1:20 PM  
Blogger Linda said...

Wow, the images in here are wonderful! The "trout / woolen in their winter scales" is just one that really spoke to me.

I'm not sure I'm right but I read the "we" as poets and how, as poets, we have a place inside us that others can't warm. We form "icy daggers" to protect that sacred part of us. Others, the squirrels, can only wave at us as we write our "sad songs" and bathe in our "own, lonely blood."

I'm not sure about the trout symbolism and will have to ponder that a bit more but, overall, I love this and often feel the same way. In fact my poem is on the same subject but not as eloquently stated as yours.

4:32 PM  
Blogger PDW said...

"demented rattle snake fleeing what it needs" ... that's what pulled this together for me. what should be isn't. what we should want we don't. what is assumed to be natural and accepted as "the way" can be so misleading ... those are my early impressions. it's mysterious to me (not a mystery, but mysterious, there's a difference) and i like that about it. have a absorbed any of what you intended? or have i missed the crux like so many of us missed the "suet" clue in mary oliver's cold poem?

carolee

10:12 AM  
Blogger sbpoet said...

This poem seems desolate, and frightening, to me.

But I don't understand it.

Do snakes lick their wounds?

Who are "we"?

Do trout ever really look "woolen"?

Perhaps I am being too concrete; it's my preference that metaphors, no matter how imaginative, hold together in real world terms.

Still, they succeed here in creating an atmosphere of threat -- cold, daggers, slither, demented, shaking, predator ...

So I end the poem feeling lost.

3:13 PM  
Blogger sbpoet said...

Now I'm worrying that I've discouraged you?

I hope not.

These images are powerful, even if I don't understand them.

1:08 PM  
Blogger paisley said...

some delectable lines ripe for the picking in this one jilly... i haven't had a chance to work on my patchwork yet.. but i am excited to do so.....

9:04 AM  

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