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Three Poems By PHYLLIS HENRY-JORDAN
July Garden
I am your July garden
I promise the sensuous richness
of the not quite yet
my soil does not forget
its duty
never duty free
to just dream and doze
fart and snore
I’m not rough-dried
nor ready-rolled
I still dig deep
with my pilgrim soul
and will continue to thrive
in this throwaway world
where nature still holds sway
for the natural world well knows
there is really no “away.”
Una Poema nos hace Ver por Prima Vez
But one word misfit and it crumbles
to bits of mortar and stone
a poem the tight double helix
of fiction and fact
the doubling, the intertwining
creates the art:
I look for a new direction—
not easy stuff
loving words and having them
return my affection
is not enough;
within my well of brass bright intention
there is mirror and microscope
miscarriage, invention
soul within sentence
syllables slowly stirring to life;
by turns falling on the page
in Persian patterns
or gliding alone
the rim of Saturn;
all these conceits work just fine
if a poem makes us see
for the very first time.
The Attic
Moving heavy furniture
in history’s attic—
hearing the ormolu clock
working the last nerve—
feathery glass pierces my bones;
Shiva dancing on the world
and on my mind map;
my ancestors: great-grandfather
in a daguerreotype—
cafe con leche good looks,
says “this is more my world than yours”—
grandmother in her wedding dress—
her body motions me in all its movements;
father in his uniform, one war older;
mother, her mind filled with gold leaf,
pushing life through a filter
of artifice, a Duccio painting,
A Sassetta altarpiece;
good looks, breeding,
proof again that life is a
terrifying phenomenon
of surface immediacy.
—Phyllis Henry-Jordan