The Literature Portal

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A New Valley

 

While I was waiting here,

he conducted the symphony:

his head was wreathed in clouds,

he had climbed a mountain

and the air was thin, but there

was a message for him at the top.

 

He spoke of new beginnings,

a time for children to be born,

to be rosy-cheeked with health;

a time to plant the fields,

a time for new ideas,

and countries to be made over.

 

I bought a lavender farm:

its fragrance rolled off into the sunset,

I was emaciated

with reckoning, afraid to live

and unprepared to die,

unsure how to continue.

 

This is a new vein—

being extravagant, healing souls

with rough flowers,

gathering the bitters in linen,

now that the fear is over,

when we reach a summit

and dare not go on alone.

 

Holding hands is new oil

that flows through the valley

of San Jacinto,

where I dream and you speak:

the oratorio glistens with wealth—

of thoughts and revelation.

  —Emily Isaacson, Hallmark

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Pisces Austrinus

I.

The yellow tolerance of lemons

growing in the raw Californian heat;

sheltered in the branches,
accepting and informing the sunlight
to stay and ripen
what once was young
into a wrinkled smile.
Dot dot Botticelli—the artwork of the masters
are the lemon half-moons
glowing and drowning in my glass,
tart and spring water-fresh:
my mouth is a canvas
of tastes and textures,
my whipped meringue
is the steady hand of white acrylic.

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Puppis

I.

A green-eyed patience stares at
the almost-winter hazelnut trees,
the reticent tap beneath the spring;
today comes swiftly as the wind,
yesterday parts as the autumn-parched leaves,
tomorrow will fulfillment bring,
a chance tryst beneath the sister pines,
where mother moon shines merrily
through the drought of clouds,
too long without the linen rain—
flying, a low angel over the fields.
The shadow world shifts
its black and white ellipsis
into beaded wild grasses, burrs
in the change of time and blackberry blossoms.

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Pyxis

I.

The joy of blue glass,
the vase, the bowl,
tinted and shaded as the sky,
with sister stars, the anise
and cardamom pods,
in constellations of pungent sweetness.
Tomato seeds,
ready to grow
in the dialect of soil,
and the potter’s directives
a warm hum of life-giving words
enameled over the silence
of neglect and starvation.
A pail of well water,
transparent and authentic.

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Reticulum

I.

The goodness of a purple crinoline
as a ballet measure, to the barre with graceful limbs,
ready to debate the radiance, as a dark fruit
takes in the sun, sanguine as a dancer in leotard:
an equitable fit for a mysterious woman
with a vivacious postmodern congruity
as her mandate, seeking a revered vision,
a courage angel standing, arms out, insensible—
the bluntness a prohibition, and aureole
refusing the dross with eagle-eyes.
She is desirous, faintly yearning, learning to dance.
What permanence she dreaded
became the equanimity of composure.
Singing as we are sung to, loving as we are being loved,
with each abating faculty, unfettered.

--Emily Isaacson, A Familiar Shore

 

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                          Classic

 

Foliage and the violet orchards

flowered and picked,

the folded and faded variety:

preserving traditions

with old jam.

 

Fields of fruit,

from Kent to Cambridge, vigor— 

a strawberry flavor, the most

English of all.

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Linen Press

 

The pots, upside down

and brown

holding earth, as we

dry the moss and lichen,

a decorative accent.

 

The hot water

on the pot-bellied stove,

a twenty-minute endeavor:

the basins, for snow-pure

sheets, socks, and scarves

hanging in the breeze.

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Inglenook

 

Castlehaven,

an engraved charcoal flight,

the ancient Romans

on the isle of wings:

the pigeonholes, laced

antique boots, leather-brown,

and monarchs converging

on wild asparagus.

 

The tiny white flowers

in a mother’s apron:

freesia an ointment

from the 17^th century onwards,

chimneys, a soot-tainted

handkerchief, and

a wreath over the door knocker.

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Provencale

 

Pots and pans

in a quiet space,

small head, with one

moment’s wish;

cloth towels to wipe away

smears, and a wild goose lake

where the blue stains.

 

Hand mirrors,

silver, ivory, and ebony,

with chaste and embossed

flowers: wreaths, ribbons, and bows;

in the hedge, small wildings

heckling the wrens.

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The Gardener 

  

The water can,

silver-blue and rain

falling into hay barrels;

the clouds, a thick lining

against Portugal’s clavier.

 

An indent per daffodil,

and weather-worn ladder

for the garden shed,

white-washed

under a tangle.

 

Blackbirds, blossoms,

redwings, and fieldfares

join in after the frost.

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Gloucestershire

 

Apples, no two alike,

from old cores,

grown among the verges.

 

Hidden deep in the woodland,

its seeds a jumble

for foxes, pies, and cider,

the crab apple dons its apron.

 

From pollen to blossom,

field to field:

woodpeckers, nuthatches,

and thrush nesting mistletoe

in the old apple wood.

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Alabaster

 

Pondering through the boughs,

barrier to wind or stock,

the wildings

in the Welsh uplands,

pink with blossoms:

weighted down with

small green spheres,

the autumn, a hidden tryst

with light:

ripening a tune.

 

One apple for three thorns,

pips, as hedgerow root stock,

and graft a twig

from morn to moon.

 

--Emily Isaacson, The Fleur-de-lis