Sunday, April 11, 2010

deanna young: two poems

about poetry.

Mostly

what i want in this
is recognition, my words to greet you

from a distance
with a wave, to be friends up close.

To be honey
spiralling onto toast, that gold

and translucent
a strand of truth, words the taste

of what they say, pure
honey on your tongue, to come

from clover
via bees. To be food.

Young, Deanna. "Mostly" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

Poemophobia

There are people walking the streets of the city
reciting poems under their breath. Poems
they have written or read, made up of words
so specific, none could be changed without grave damage
to the whole; nor the soul of the matter explained
without some great symphony of nakedness writhing.

They walk by your doorstep, you do not wave.
You suspect they might be crazy, and they might.
You distrust the subtle movements of their lips
and I don't blame you. I would do the same.
What choice do we have in a world of door-to-door
sermons, dressed up like truth in black and white.

I hear you. No poems are safe. Good night.

Young, Deanna. "Poemophobia" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.