I don’t really know what to do with the poetry I write, but I’m trying to get more in the habit of sharing it. That said, while I build a portfolio, I’ll put some of my poetry here.
Moth Verse “I’ve written nothing of acclaim!” It whispers in the evening, leaning in - a sallow moth, antennae fluttering soft against a mellow summer wind, beating dusty wings around a tree. “The emerald sun has sunk and it will not rise again.”
Blueberry Season The challenge of picking blueberries is not much on the back or knees or shoulders because the berries grow light and high on the highbush waiting, conveniently bound in their cerulean clusters, unless you have grown old, your muscles tired. But then it is a small suffering for something as sweet and sour as a filled brimming basket of fresh, personally picked blueberries. The hardship of picking blueberries is not much on the heart because it is impossible not to love whoever is picking blueberries beside you, with whoever you share your vast blue bounty. Unless you are heartbroken, grieving your loss, but then it is a small misery, their cobbled memory reminds you of berries soft skin, still warm from basking for days and days in the late summer sunlight. The strain of picking blueberries is rarely on the mind. A wandering between and under branches is easy math well practiced. You will not see equations, divergences nor curls. You see your blueberries, and you pick them, and you take them home, unless your berrylust gets the best of you- so beautiful, so deeply hungry for this you have been. The toll of picking blueberries is primarily on the soul. The great price of your trespass is its transience, so it is billed directly to the unthought pieces of charge, electrons dancing wildly their unseen pathways, acting, but not knowing - dancing, not knowing. Nostalgic, anxious and sorry, hungry and full of regret - but still not knowing. Just so, the sun, the rain, the berried branches will continue this work without you. Yes! More blueberries will grow tonight, once the sun sets and you toss and turn, dreaming again of the things your mind would dare not conjure, your heart would dare not trust, your back would dare not carry.
Spaventoso, Ma Non Troppo Could I describe this one part of the song? Ah, no, I’m afraid I can’t. Yet still I will try. You have to listen - right there! The tone - it breathes! No, no - it stops its breathing. The refrain, there, it’s gone. I’m becoming afraid, this isn’t working. you’re listening and hearing the song, not this. The beautiful music, not this. I’ll try again if you’d let me. But before you say - it’s just the same, it’s just what you heard before, it’s not - softly, the major change. It’s so obvious, Just tonal cliche. Forget it, forget this. I’m afraid now that I’ve been stupid and obvious, and lazy with my small soul. It was dreadfully foolish... ...but there it is, Obvious, played, again, again. A practiced grip- It takes me again.
H Perry Hatchfield 