(An International Journal of Poetry)
ISSN 2249 –2178
Volume-2 JUNE -2012 Number-1
The sleeping mind recreates
by Marge Piercy
What jetsam the waves of night
bear as they crash on the soft
shores of my sleeping body:
friends long dead stalk through
my mind, my mother stands arms
akimbo, scolding. My brown
amazon cat Colette rubs against
my inert arm and wakes me.
Always I am moving in or out
of houses, apartments created
of pieces of the many nests I built
over decades, before the roots
of my life struggled deep into the sand
and clay of this hill. I am hiding in oaks
on the steep bank of the Severn
where at ten I played on wooden steps.
Memories are promiscuous, mating
each with others, birthing weird
progeny that are nothing like my past
yet formed of it. How the mind sorts
and discards, mixes and mutates
as if at night an alchemist magician
emerges from my jellied brain
to preside over masked theatrics.
By Marge Piercy
How do you pick out one person
to love intensely, out of the thousands
who have tromped, flown, danced,
stumbled through a life?
Sometimes love grows like an oak
slowly ring on ring till suddenly
it stands a giant and you keep
house under its shade.
Sometimes it thunders down
engulfing you like an avalanche.
Sometimes it strikes from behind
like a mugger and you fall.
However it comes, does it stay?
Does it shrink or grow? Feed
you or feed on you? Strengthen
or weaken muscles and bones?
Each one feels like the only.
Each one changes your face.
You have to decide if you like
the person it makes you become.
You have to decide.