Isabell, the White Roses, and Perfection
She's out in the garden with coarse earth and dew.
She scratches her hair, all tangled, unclean.
She's sweating, the reek of working comes through.
She hasn't applied deodorant on waking.
I can't say I always like her baking.
And the white roses by her side as she plants
The seeds - they're virgins inviting the sun.
They sway to and fro, the petals hum.
Butterflies flit about, butterflies come.
Soil has an orchestra of worms, and slime
From the rain last night underlies the time.
The tree here is crooked, with a cracked bough.
I cannot say there is perfection now.
Perfection's an idea, what's perfect is dead.
Perfection's the conjuring trick of a human head.
I can only say that what I see's alive.
The tree's crookedness, the slime, the smell,
The roses' freshness, sweating Isabell,
The coarse uneven soil, the jagged white stone
All partake of life's breath and passionate moan.
wonderful closing line pulls together this evocative piece... one is there sensing what you portray
A suggestion here: you might be able to soften some of your abrupt end-stops by making some of the periods into semicolons in the beginning of the poem. Just a thought. a poet friend...RH Peat
I really like this poem Yacov. The power in the images are sublime. And the metaphor of: (I cannot say there is perfection now./ Perfection's an idea, what's perfect is dead.) is a very strong metaphor, and it leaves the reader in contemplation. I've written a poem about perfection as well. It's in my book, "Abyss Of The Moon". I can really relate to this poem in many ways. And it offers a wonderful epiphany as well as real sensations that are very tangible through its imagery. A great poem. A poet friend..RH Peat
Ah! You teased my senses with this lovely verse... Dorothy A Poet Who Loves To Sing