Rogers - Holy Heathen Rhapsody
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Abstract: New work from an award-winning poet who writes transporting poems of discovery, contemplation, and gratitude (Booklist) Pattiann Rogers has won acclaim as one of the most original voices in contemporary American poetry. The poems in her new collection, Holy Heathen Rhapsody, embrace and embody the forces of the Earth and the creative power of its lifeforms in all the wildness of their varieties. Love in these poems is a force infused with the same creative power and intensity, the purest manifestation of the will-to-be. This vision and its making contend that even a shadow or a floating seed, a frond of green or a midnight spider, even a mongrel dog, wind over water, the human voice, the human witness, peace and weapons, allevery aspect and feature encounteredare fully endowed players in the dynamic music of the Earth
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USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com A Penguin Random House Company First published in Penguin Books 2013 Copyright Pattiann Rogers, 2013 Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. Pages 95 and 96 constitute an extension of this copyright page. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Rogers, Pattiann, 1940 [Poems. Selections] Holy Heathen Rhapsody / Pattiann Rogers. pages cm. (Penguin Poets) Poems. ISBN 978-1-101-62057-1 I. Title.
(SPATIAL POSITIONING) COURTING WITH FINESSE:
MY DOUBLE ORANGE POPPY
(SPATIAL POSITIONING) COURTING WITH FINESSE:
MY DOUBLE ORANGE POPPY
With the quackgrass, a sturdy rootstock. I recognize the maneuvers: buried rhizomes of beggar weed, long-sleeping seeds of bitter dock. For canes and reeds, they are leafy runners. Their aim is true toward any sun-slit opening in the multi-storied canopy, any crack of clay or mortar, through any ice-broken web across a boulder. Theres one now, a green squeeze through the splinter seam in that fence post. Up, outward, and into the deeps, goosegrass, witch grass, panic grass, crowfoot grass and nut grass.
And Ive felt the keenness of their tactics, havent you? Spurs of bristlegrass, milk thistle or sow thistle, needles, nettles of sand bur, hooked spines, barbed awns, bristly tufts. Blood can be proof. Straining contrivances alltangled mats of knotweed and carpetweed, swaying airy reach of wild vines (morning glory, tack weed, grape), bold rankness of burdock and tarweeds, plus the toadrush love of slushy muck. Even mossy slime has its loaded armies. The slip and slither, the feint, twirl, snatch, catch and hold.
Having grown up together, the lesser long nosed bat plunges perfectly with its bristly tongue to sweep the sweetness of the saguaro blossom. The hawk moths tongue delves its full length to reach exactly the far bottom end of the comet orchids narrow nectary. Bumblebees with magic keys are everywhere opening snapdragons with magic locks. In the early days of our beginnings, when our first mothers came upon those colors in the clearingsdawning pearl petals, warm golds and startling scarlets, seductive violets and dusky pinks growing in among the monotonous greensthey were pleased. Blossom perfumes rose spicy, winsome, nostalgic with sun-and-moon fragrances. The people fed, though the flowers were not food, left them to bloom in the scratched-out earth.
Their seeds, mixed with the others, were scattered and sown, season after season. Though fragile, they thrived, all the while cultivating deep in the bones of the people the gentleness of care they required, invoking in the genes of the people a new longing for beauty. The loveliest ones they wove through the hair; the hardiest they placed on the breasts; the favorites they enclosed in the folded fingers of the dead. One of us could be the night pollinator,flying with fur-covered wings of skinnorth from Mexico over the rockyslopes and seared bajadas of the deserts,toward the mad musky fragranceof the organ pipe cactus, its buddingflowers ripe and swelling in the dark.The other one could be the blossom,scented and sedate, the lightest shadeof lavender smooth as white waitingin the night, ravaged, then graced,pinioned on the tip of the tallest stem.
Her bodyseed wing or feather down, thread slivers of silk touches each curled lobe and creviced branch as she passes, slides underside, overside, along the ridges and furrows. (Is that a tiny tongue finding the way?) Love is this sun holding tree of lapping leaves, delves, canopies, a multi-tangled cover. A spasm of breeze, the tree shivers, each leaf twisting white flash/green shadow. By will or wind, she moves stemward toward the steady trunk, following fissure and tangent, rests finally folded in a woody niche. Who could know better? Regard the celestial; the sky is not shelter.
A black tern holds its feet flat against its body as it wings through the green skies and currents of an earth winging through sizzling star celestials. A ship, a speck passing by above on the green undersurface sky of the ocean, has no notion of the volcanic flow seeping from a sizzling crack in the earth miles below, the only line of light appearing on the ocean floor. It could be a frond of fern sizzling and spooling, unfurling its green wing within the current and wake of the day, the only frond of fire appearing on the rain forest floor. Remember the eye of the tern, a speck of sky in which rides for this moment the full wake of summer and its green currents, the spool of the sun in its dawning. It could easily be a shawl of light placed around a womans shoulders as she rests beneath a mimosa, unaware of a seed drifting high above her on the green undersurface sky of July. See how the green fronds of the rain unfurl, spooling away in the oceans current.
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