NEARING AUTOBIOGRAPHYShe has her own website, The Poetry World of Pattiann Rogers. Her ear for music is fantastic and her imagery's as vivid as can be (but sometimes too much.)
Those are my bones rifted
and curled, knees to chin,
among the rocks on the beach,
my hands splayed beneath my skull
in the mud. Those are my rib
bones resting like white sticks
wracked on the bank, laid down,
delivered, rubbed clean
by river and snow.
Ethereal as seedless weeds
in dim sun and frost, I see
my own bones translucent as locust
husks, light as spider bones,
as filled with light as lantern
bones when the candle flames.
And I see my bones, facile,
willing, rolling and clacking,
reveling like broken shells
among themselves in a tumbling surf.
I recognize them, no other's,
raggedly patterned and wrought,
peeled as a skeleton of sycamore
against gray skies, stiff as a fallen
spruce. I watch them floating
at night, identical lake slivers
flush against the same star bones
drifting in scattered pieces above.
Everything I assemble, all
the constructions I have rendered
are the metal and dust of my locked
and storied bones. My bald cranium
shines blind as the moon.
17 August 2004
Haven't Had Enough Of Moon And Star Metaphors?
How About Bones?
Ladies and gentlemen, Pattiann Rogers:
Top Shelf
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Pictures to Show The article calls for being present. That instead of taking photos of the bee Sucking on sunflower, Lock your eyes ...
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Everyday view from the kitchen window You read your horoscope and think it can apply to literally anyone in the world. Then you go deeper ...
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Prelude Let's make work of beginnings. Think prelude, how the masters leave little worlds on their own till one is found by acc...
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Superboy! You have a liking for high places Dissecting plain skies Looking down on people Dissolving into borders Because you wish to fly...
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Appropriate, to the level of cliché, that the first blog of the year features a prelude. In TV-series tradition, a brief recap of 202...
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The Vocalist The rest could only imitate what he alone and all alone could do: sustain, vibrate, reach unnamed colors of the soundscape. ...
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Pulse (A love poem) In the beginning was a pulse that came right before any breath to birth a song or a word. It throbs even as the music...
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Tooth Which child's heart didn't throb, eyes didn't widen at the taste of tooth rocking back and forth the soft slide of gum, ...
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So I have gotten into the habit of recording my piano practices because reasons (that have got to do with skills development and, admittedl...
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The piano makes me happy, which means it makes me sad if I can't engage with it daily in some way — playing, practising, messing aroun...