Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun rides again.

Sunday, October 24, 2021

To An Admirer

 "It's like being mailed into space" --Sylvia Plath

There are children
and a magnifying glass,
an ant
a sidewalk
and the summer sun, 92 million miles away.

The Prometheus ant will shortly know glory
and the eagle.
The children are its doctors
with their laser.

A poem on one's heart
is a volcano in a paper bag.
An old romantic
is an ant in a Hiroshima body.

You'll see me magnified, aflame,
for writing this poem about
happy children
in the summer sun.


  1. From the children in the sun with a magnifying glass to the vision of a poem on the heart as a volcano in a paper bag this whole poem is magnificent!! Poetry and what the heart holds dear is a gigantic yet hidden thing! I love this poem my friend! You are already prepared for your next beautiful collection Shay!!

  2. "A poem on one's heart
    is a volcano in a paper bag.
    An old romantic
    is an ant in a Hiroshima body."

    Whoosh! Mind. Blown. (Makes scattering motions by the top of my head.) Smiles.

  3. I suspect everyone reading this magnificent poetry will be incredibly struck by 'a poem on one's heart is a volcano in a paper bag' ..... absolutely stunning, Shay.

  4. When I read this it feels like we're all just part of someone's/something's big game.

  5. Luv this
    "A poem on one's heart
    is a volcano in a paper bag."

    Happy Sunday


  6. Like everyone I'm drawn to the heart like a volcano in a paper bag. Absolutely brilliant!

  7. Volcano in a paper bag!!! Ant hiroshima!!! Children playing god and Satan and having a blast. What a tribute to Plath, with concentrated, deadly light and frantic darkness. My lord, the reliver stepped in bottom of the ninth, two on, two outs, and closes out the game.

  8. I liked this Shay. I found it dark in a marvelous way. I had a plastic magnifying glass in 1952. I was 5. I loved it. I was Phaethon on 3 wheels, scourge of all Formicidae within a block of the corner of Perry St and Kinney ave.

  9. then they grow up to pour molten aluminum in anthills, and call it art .

    but, yes, gobsmacked especially by that volcano, and by that metaphor. ~

  10. I found the children in this frightening little gods in the machine, and my sympathies are all with the ants, and the narrator. Every metaphor is exquisite, and one can't help wishing for a more compassionate admirer, and a world without lasers, magnification, and eagles, one where the cost of giving does not involve third degree burns or one's liver being devoured. Or so I read. The irony in the last stanza is perfect.

  11. Your poetry definitely gets under the skin with the wonderful mix of images , and darkness amongst so much light.

  12. I think this is beautiful and vulnerable and the epitome of love—unconditional love. I think this is what it is to be a mother. To be God.

    It’s like, the “ant” is joyful to burn, at its own peril, if just for a moment to experience the ultimate gift—a child’s smile and laughter.

    “They know not what they do.” It’s only play. They don’t fully comprehend the pain they’re causing. It’s not deviant behavior; it’s exhilaration. Or is it? What matters is the speaker’s willingness to be a sacrifice. To be laid bare, a target of dangerous heat.

    Or more likely, you’re being ironic. ;) I just can’t help but see the beauty in the poet’s offering, knowing the torture she may bring upon herself by writing. <3

    This is my favorite line: “The children are its doctors”


Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?