We squabble over a word’s meaning
and history’s precedents while outside,
contained in tidy pots, golden roses
open their blouses. Daisies spin around
bright wheels, each petal unique
as a last exclamation.
Squabble with life
when we could descend like Monet
into its round dot, open a door
and find a tiny gray feather
whose shaft is the perfect arc.
Squabble, when we could arch
like that? Be a tiny, shining spine’s
I used to gather weeds
from the fields, their disorder
a squabble of vowels, but now see
wisdom in roundness, a floating truth
like a lily on a pond.
The fragility of the small press poetry community is on my mind in a new way after this experience. How many poets are publishing with operations that leave them buying their own books to sell, with chain bookstores emperiling the indepedents, many of whom won't carry poetry anymore because it doesn't sell. We live in a fragile poetry world, sustained, though by the sense of community that increases as the economic uncertainties close presses and booksellers down. What will save poetry? because it has survived throughout history and surely will never die. I think this medium in which you're reading, is poetry's new frontier. I hate to say it, but print is really dying. Perhaps to arise in a new form -- downloadable, printable eBooks of poetry? I have one on my phone already.