The Poetry of Reflections

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Reflections
dissolve the tree
that thinks it’s autumn

into lines and waves
and a woman photographing
something hidden standing
in front the tree –

perhaps a child on a bike
her daughter
or her grandchild

writing on the ripples
of water’s time
a winter’s day to

remember
a cycle at the gardens.

Tirra Lirra
watches the water
before she sings

‘May they always be happy.’

She projects
her new autumn dress
into the ripples.

If only she had a bike
to ride back through time
instead of a bike
to ride as a ghost.

She sings herself a
ripple into the water

floats into the poets
that watch for her
in reflections –

something hidden inside the poem

for artists
to watch and sing for.

(c) June Perkins

(See this for more about Tirra Lirra)

What Makes Me Read a Poem?

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Art in nature – June Perkins

The first lines and opening must avoid cliché
and even better still intrigue and invite me
into the poem’s world.
It really mustn’t tell me how much love is like a rose.
 
If there is metaphor it needs to flow and extend naturally
and there are so many metaphors that have been overused
it might take some experiments to find something original
but too original than perhaps I won’t relate.
 
The poem could profound
I don’t mind having to do some work to understand
but if it totally confuses, leaves me lost,
then I am unlikely to read until the end.
Please don’t let it have an artifice of depth
but actually be a shallow pool.
 
It might leave me with a question, an impression, a mood, a challenge,
a pertinent observation and
a constant musing on its end.
I might want to read it again and again.
It might be the poem I’ll forever carry in my head.
 
It might enchant and seduce with its
delicate impressions that capture
the natural world I love.
 
It might introduce me to words
I have never heard before but instead of shutting me
out make me curious and willing to go and look them up.
 
It might touch a nerve
crawl into my poetry sense
with its metre and cadence
burrow into my head
to create comfort or discomfort
to unnerve me
with its truth.
 
Perhaps it is clever beyond belief
an artful crafting of sonnet, haiku, prose poem
or villanelle
but if it’s clever just for clever’s sake
I might not give it a second reading
even though I admire the technical skill.
 
Or maybe it’s just what I needed to read that very minute and
it just came into my life
in the feed, in the poetry book someone gifted to me
in a random search online.
 
Maybe it says what I am feeling
trying to do
trying to understand
trying to remember
trying to encourage in the world
trying to forget.
 
Now I’ve told you my reasons
I wonder dear reader
Why do you read a poem ?

(c) June Perkins  

Detachment

I’ve been visiting a lot of poetry blogs lately and one that I come back to frequently is John Etheridge’s’The Book of Pain.’ He has many gems – and today with his kind permission I share this one.

the Book of Pain

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She holds and twists her long telling tale
of tangled and torn-at knots: blue ones, red ones,
yellow ones, green, her nails worn to the quick
sorting the strands of the rough, tough fibers,
tiny dark stains bled into the ragged ends.

Blue ones, I think, for the oceans of ink wept
and yet to be written; red ones for the nights that
the sharp-tongued are out, and yellow for the spot
to stand firm on. (The blow, it’s certain, is coming,
yet you stand there just the same.) And finally
green, dark green, that whispering green,
that green-green germ that grows inside you:
the one you eat whole and alive, or it eats you up
from the inside out—the one you want so very much
because you planted it there just for you. That one.

As much as it is to take her hands and gently warm
them to a stop, I don’t—I won’t—I can’t. They are
not mine…

View original post 256 more words

Evening Similes

Spirits Of The Fleeting Dull Ambience
LiLauraLu – Flickr Creative Commons

Art is like memories lost, then found
Memories can be a Pandora’s box.

Camera is like a dear friend sharing special moments.
A dear friend is the antidote to a depressing day.

Fake flower is like a make-up face.
Make-up face is a shield to protect.

Curtains are like eye lids that open and shut.
Eye lids are bridges between night and day.

Guitar is like a bird that wants to be heard.
Bird is a dreamer’s avenue to wings.

Poem is like a letter to a detective called reader.

By June Perkins

mamu_cameragirl

Camera Girl, by June Perkins

Just playing around with similes and metaphors for a few days.