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Jan. 7th, 2003 10:59 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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greatpoetryBeaujolais
by Yerra Sugarman
In my closet her corduroy dress—a burgundy you could say, a Beaujolais. My shadow leaves
me in night's feudal shoe, where even the periodic table can rest. But I'm ruddy-eyed, sleepless.
Furrowed fields of my hands, my mother's jumper was Beaujolais. The blinds rake and sway.
The catalpa tree throws its beans at me. Beans to you! Memory will lay down its acetylene
torch Torturers, doubters, killers: peak not. May welders of recollection solder tears of you.
As life walks me dumb on its leash, I will dig for her, although I have no paws—just a pin.
Insouciant skinny shadow, which covenants break tonight? her jumper was a rose madder
you could say, with a dread need for its dusty gullies to be swept. Tomorrow I will dig 55
years. On my chest she is still young and leans on a dirty stone lion somewhere in France,
with the head cracked in two. Mornings my mother was loath to rise. The pomp of her sun-
lit windows frightened her. I had not wanted to love her life. I did not want to pity her.
I'll look up love. I'll look up pity. I'll look up keep. I will not put words in my mouth.
All of Europe is Beaujolais. I will dig for my mother tomorrow with a pin. Where is my pin?
by Yerra Sugarman
In my closet her corduroy dress—a burgundy you could say, a Beaujolais. My shadow leaves
me in night's feudal shoe, where even the periodic table can rest. But I'm ruddy-eyed, sleepless.
Furrowed fields of my hands, my mother's jumper was Beaujolais. The blinds rake and sway.
The catalpa tree throws its beans at me. Beans to you! Memory will lay down its acetylene
torch Torturers, doubters, killers: peak not. May welders of recollection solder tears of you.
As life walks me dumb on its leash, I will dig for her, although I have no paws—just a pin.
Insouciant skinny shadow, which covenants break tonight? her jumper was a rose madder
you could say, with a dread need for its dusty gullies to be swept. Tomorrow I will dig 55
years. On my chest she is still young and leans on a dirty stone lion somewhere in France,
with the head cracked in two. Mornings my mother was loath to rise. The pomp of her sun-
lit windows frightened her. I had not wanted to love her life. I did not want to pity her.
I'll look up love. I'll look up pity. I'll look up keep. I will not put words in my mouth.
All of Europe is Beaujolais. I will dig for my mother tomorrow with a pin. Where is my pin?
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Date: 2003-01-07 08:48 am (UTC)thank you.
i must go find poetry by that writer.
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Date: 2003-01-07 08:53 am (UTC)but i will post this in my journal because this poem is a m a z i n g. some new poets are so amazing.
glad you enjoyed it
Date: 2003-01-07 12:08 pm (UTC)Re: glad you enjoyed it
Date: 2003-01-07 12:19 pm (UTC)2. yes, i've been published before.
thanks for your interest.
Re: glad you enjoyed it
Date: 2003-01-07 12:25 pm (UTC)best of luck with your literary career!
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Date: 2003-01-07 09:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-01-07 09:59 am (UTC)