In the birch forest,
my lazy sister poses as a river.
In her hair, rims of ice
where she runs an orphanage for birch leaves.
The chill black water is God's mustache.
He has crows for barbers
and my sister is His postmistress.
A workman carries in his sack
things said to his wife,
a few hours from a week in July,
and a small statue of St. Joseph.
His train will come soon, smelling of hay fields and lady slippers.
People say to me, is that your sister?
We invite them to stay, but they fade as we forget them.
Papa arrives home in the winter.
He is the Northern Lights, we are belled reindeer.
As Russian Orthodox,
we celebrate Christmas in January and Easter out of doors.
Papa carries my mother's lost babies in his work sack
where they turn into inked letters.
His love is their postage,
my sister their patroness.
Once each year they return, with ice in their hair,
to sit by July and remark how his whiskers look like birches in the breeze
when he sees them, and smiles.
________
obligatory link back to Dverse OLN.
This is simply amazing.
ReplyDeleteBefore I give one thought to its meaning and intricate depth, I am near tears just over the beauty and brilliance of the language. You are what God is—elevated above all others in your field of expertise.
ReplyDeleteThis is my favorite:
Delete“Papa carries my mother's lost babies in his work sack
where they turn into inked letters.
His love is their postage”
That is my favorite too! It is deep and amazing!!
DeleteI've read this four times, and still can't imagine where, what cosmic place, it came from. This poem is its own world, perfectly crafted in every detail and laid out as simply and as intricately as a meadow full of flowers, or a forest of white-barked birch. From "...The chill black water is God's mustache.." to "..Once each year they return, with ice in their hair,/to sit by July and remark how his whiskers look like birches in the breeze .." it paints a stream of messages, visual and cryptic, full of a weight which is secret and enduring whether the letters ever arrive or not. The entire conceit of these family members being forces of nature who carry "the post" is pure genius. I doubt I will ever get to the bottom of it all, but just reading the amazing language is meaning enough for me. You really should think about finding a publisher for this (and all your work, of course--but this is exceptional.)
ReplyDeleteYou really are on a level all your own Shay! How you bring to life and view feelings and memories in such a vivid well crafted way is simply brilliant! Every line is a gift to cherish and admire!
ReplyDeleteI can't even.
ReplyDeleteThe whole poem is incredible. This is what poetry is all about. Such talent. Blows me away. But it's those last lines. If I wasn't smiling and crying at the same time by then I surely would have at that point.
ReplyDelete"Once each year they return, with ice in their hair,
to sit by July and remark how his whiskers look like birches in the breeze
when he sees them, and smiles."
Beautiful, Poignant, stunning.
Lovely poem all around. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteReally fine
ReplyDeletethis is brilliant shay! thw whole poem feels like a thick white heavy winter 9anf the line with russian orthodox, really, and indirectly, amplifies it for me, and as always very original... way to say it all without saying it all!
ReplyDeleteFantastic imagery, Shay!
ReplyDeleteI'm with Hedge, snow globe or fifth nested Russian doll for provenance: I can't help read it against the geopolitics of the day, immune to the ravages of war in the Ukraine only to the end of Papa's frosted whiskers and the snowy birches who reign unprompted.
ReplyDeleteI agree very much with Hedgewitch...and am stunned....more than stunned frankly....
ReplyDeleteI mean all of it is stunning, but I just can't get over those first two lines...
ReplyDeleteWell, it would probably be superfluous to leave another comment, really, but since I'm here...reading this again, I more than ever feel caught in a fairy tale world gone completely wild, a feral place with its own rules and rightness, and sense of family that transcends the simple definitions we generally apply. And I am still amazed by the beautiful language you have dusted over it like a fall of perfect, untouched snow. One of your best, Shay.
ReplyDeleteI also agree with Hedgewitch. This is superb writing and the story told with such incredible imagery and delicacy. It's profound in its stunning beauty.
ReplyDeleteAbsolutely incredible Shay. I stand in awe.
ReplyDeleteOh God, what a blinder. Just exquisite, and so vivid. These lines though:
ReplyDelete"The chill black water is God's mustache.
He has crows for barbers
and my sister is His postmistress."
There is always such a stark beauty in your words, Shay, always. You literally paint beauty <3
This is deeply moving, Shay! I especially like; "In her hair, rims of ice where she runs an orphanage for birch leaves. The chill black water is God's mustache. He has crows for barbers."
ReplyDeleteWonderful poetry Shay. As always, rich with the imagery of your personal mystery. Love the image of the lazy river (sister) as an orphanage for birch leaves.
ReplyDeleteFrom the first two lines (I love) to his smile when he sees them, this is a beauty of a poem.
ReplyDelete