IRIS, 1889

 

 

Vincent Van Gogh

Out of the stony ground of his tortured life, these iris

rise, writhe, charmed like snakes by the song of the sun.

The wild blue heart of longing moves up, up,

from papery rhizomes, common dirt.  Out of nothing,

armfuls of sky.  They burn, flames in a hearth, as they dance

above the pale green swords of their leaves.  It’s all

or nothing, this loud shout, this wild abundance, a few short

weeks in May.  On the canvas, they sing forever.  The suffering

world recedes in the background.  They lean to the left, pushed

by the wind, but not one stalk is bent or broken.  Oh, the fierce

burning joys of this life; all the things of the world, about to vanish.

                       

 

© Barbara Crooker

Radiance (Word Press)

 

 

 

THE HOUR OF PEONIES

 

 

The Buddha says, “Breathing in, I know I am here in my body.

Breathing out, I smile to my body,” and here I am, mid-span,

a full-figured woman who could have posed for Renoir. 

When I die, I want you to plant peonies for me, so each May,

my body will resurrect itself in these opulent blooms, one

of les Baigneuses, sunlight stippling their luminous breasts,

rosy nipples, full bellies, an amplitude of flesh, luxe, calme

et volupté.  And so are these flowers, an exuberance

of cream, pink, raspberry, not a shrinking violet

among them. They splurge, they don’t hold back,

they spend it all. At the end, confined to a wheelchair,

paintbrushes strapped to his arthritic hands,

Renoir said, “the limpidity of the flesh, one wants to caress it.”

Even after the petals have fallen, the lawn is full of snow,

the last act in Swan Lake where the corps de ballet,

in their feathered tutus, kneel and kiss the ground, cover it in light.

           

                       

 

© Barbara Crooker

Radiance (Word Press)

 

 

 

 

ANTI-WAR PANTOUM

 

 

Everyone should write a spring poem.  Louise Glück

 

For, in spite of everything, spring has come again:

Daffodils push up spears, as if marching to war.

Robins scratch the ground, kick up turf,

Who could imagine, grass this shade of green?

 

So many young men, marching off to war

Under a cloud of lies and patriotism—

Who could imagine, news that’s not real,

Concocted out of someone’s rich imagination?

 

Under a dark cloud of invented facts,

Forsythia explodes in blossom.

Reporters at laptops, inventing news,

the furrowed earth, waits for rain.

 

The forsythia’s rockets explode, electric;

Our bodies spark when they undress.

Your brow furrows, and the rain

Comes down on the just and unjust, alike.

 

Our electric bodies, in the dark.

Robins fighting for their turf.

The just and the unjust wait for rain.

Despite all rumors, spring returns.

                                   

 

 

© Barbara Crooker

Shattering the Silence (Santa Fe Broadsides)

 

 

 

 

SHE BROUGHT ME A PEONY,

 

 

its pale ruffled petals edged in pink,

its heart of gold stamens,

its scent that tints the air

around it, says May, says

white wooden porches, tree-

lined streets, says women

in flowery dresses, lace-

edged handkerchiefs

rolled in their sleeves,

says iced tea with mint

leaves, albums of snap

shots, white scalloped

borders, black corners

with the mucilage

coming off, pictures

of relatives and friends

whose names are forgotten,

but whose sweetness remains:

the way this one told a joke,

her recipe for lemon bread,

how he forgot his own name

by the end, but remembered

all the horses on the farm:

Sweet Boy, Charlie, Peony Rose.

           

 

 

© Barbara Crooker

New Works Review