what makes the earth sing

Excerpt

in defence of the waterless poem, by Sylvia Adams

I don't belong here;
I'm dry as a bleached skull
picked clean by desert winds,
dry as an old man's cough,
as the burnt-straw crackle of witches hair
a calabash gourd rattling its seeds
in time to the dancers' beat;
dry as a stogie stubbed in an ashtray
from a party long forgotten;
dry as the twigs gathered for autumn's bonfires.

Dry is kind: doesn't ask
for cascades, geysers, blue lagoons;
keeps still, as uncomplaining as
a corn husk in a prairie drought;
offering faded colours that never strain your eyes
and flannels and fuzzy slippers
when you're drenched by November rains.

So here you are: a poem that remembers
that stale crust of bread
you wouldn't eat when you were five,
the one your grandmother coaxed
would make your hair curl;
the paint that peeled from the old shed
at the back of your sun-parched garden;
the box of dusty tintypes tucked away in the attic,
the browned corsage from the formal
you attended with What's-his-name.

A sugar-code zero poem
that shrivels your tongue
leaving you reaching for
a tall cool glass
brimming with
mirage

(from what makes the earth sing, p. 37)

Overview

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Chapbook Details

Availability

Most bookstores in the Ottawa area, and from the publisher.

Publisher

ADAR Press
1402-2625 Regina Street
Ottawa, Ontario. K2B 5W8 Canada