Two Poems
Isobel Freer
Sitting on the Edge of a Clawfoot Tub
It would have been a clay pot.
Large, not evenly rounded,
Made of earth, water,
Particles of sand or finely-crushed gravel.
It shimmered and winked at her
On the beach beside the lake.
What agent solidified it,
I do not know; I am not potter
Now or then. Woman with matted hair,
Brown straw tangling down browned back,
Burred, twigged, brown-leaved,
Bending over misshapen pot,
Stirring muddy water
Into which she cast runes
And button-sized eggs,
Final deliveries of half-formed
Forest hens who squawked
In unfinished voices before losing voice
And head in one twisting motion.
Her child crawls
In dust around the fire,
Drools dust-rivers of red clay
Down chin and chest.
Eats red clay and branches,
Swallows small stones,
Beetles the size of hen eggs,
Crumbled brown leaves.
He peers at his penis-head,
Clean beneath dusty foreskin.
They are a dream of mine,
Naked under hot sun.
I think of them on Sunday mornings,
Pin up my hair, unbrushed,
Study mascara beneath eyes, unwashed,
Wonder if I can slip into a grocery store, unseen.
Summarily Poeting, First Run
to this I go a visitor
the borrowed place
of lingered word
may I chant on haunches
sniggering their inch
hooched above
the restless foot—
spark sly
along the inner edge
of sound and
sorrow:
now rhythm
now form
now oomph and
syncopating
rattle--
sly along the sun sweet
of higher day;
may I wait, here,
marked footpath in
reverenced word;
trace softer thought
one measure of ivy
and dampened wall;
caressed edge
fingerslight and
fleeting—
or this restless place
tapping; tapping—
I am the rose,
peach-hued and soft-
blown: I am
the rose, morning
known and swooning,
swooning—
or here, citybuilding
imperfectly seized
against the blue
fading: Meier white
reciting afternoon’s
sad gold—or citystreet
corner that fullblown
millisec and everystreet-
sweep dancing,
dancing—some
foolishness, now:
I go, tossing
words over
my shoulder
to fall like salt--
to fall like dusk,
or breathe, unpaced,
like dawning—toss
with me, now:
toss—or fall
into the night;
we will fall forever
we will fall then
breathe like dawning
Isobel Freer is a poet, writer and artist. In her literary work, Isobel is fiercely and reverently intent on work that reduces a moment to its essence. In addition to poetry, Isobel writes fiction and essays and maintains a presence in the worlds of social media and blogging.