BLACKBERRIES
The birthing scream uncoiled
across the grass, catching in our throats,
in our blackberry purple fingertips. We came from the fields scratched and brown
buckets of berries under our arms.
My baby sister was born covered in clotted milk, and we stood wide eyed
at the edge of the room, clenching our buckets in our fists
Through the window, the August sun turned dust motes to flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room.
Father tied the eerie blue cord with a string,
and we buried the placenta beneath the cherry tree. * * * "Blackberries." Copyright © 1999 by Gabriele Hayden So, basically I am in love with this poem because of the style it is written in. The southern gothic aspects of this piece reflect my own style of writing, and I absolutely am obsessed with the time period, which seeing as the agricultural farm of this family is the focal point, was quite some time ago. Yet, here we are, trapped within a very unsettling and bright moment in which a child is born still. The sadness of the situation is unnoticed by the loveliness of the tone, the loftiness of the lines, for instance, "flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room," is a beautiful image that glorifies the despairing moment. The ability to begin a poem with, "The birthing scream," is talent: not only does this draw you in with a sudden visual of a child uncoiling across the grass, all bloodied and purple, but it also is NOISE, and a great deal of it. The blackberry being tied in color to the baby is cleverly done, giving milk a feminine aspect and nurturing aspect to the mother, whose milk will soon dry and waste away. I also enjoy the fact that everyone witnessing the event is shocked, still clutching blackberry buckets in their stunned stupor. Such tragedy laced in such a devastatingly beautiful and colorful poem; I love it.
across the grass, catching in our throats,
in our blackberry purple fingertips. We came from the fields scratched and brown
buckets of berries under our arms.
My baby sister was born covered in clotted milk, and we stood wide eyed
at the edge of the room, clenching our buckets in our fists
Through the window, the August sun turned dust motes to flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room.
Father tied the eerie blue cord with a string,
and we buried the placenta beneath the cherry tree. * * * "Blackberries." Copyright © 1999 by Gabriele Hayden So, basically I am in love with this poem because of the style it is written in. The southern gothic aspects of this piece reflect my own style of writing, and I absolutely am obsessed with the time period, which seeing as the agricultural farm of this family is the focal point, was quite some time ago. Yet, here we are, trapped within a very unsettling and bright moment in which a child is born still. The sadness of the situation is unnoticed by the loveliness of the tone, the loftiness of the lines, for instance, "flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room," is a beautiful image that glorifies the despairing moment. The ability to begin a poem with, "The birthing scream," is talent: not only does this draw you in with a sudden visual of a child uncoiling across the grass, all bloodied and purple, but it also is NOISE, and a great deal of it. The blackberry being tied in color to the baby is cleverly done, giving milk a feminine aspect and nurturing aspect to the mother, whose milk will soon dry and waste away. I also enjoy the fact that everyone witnessing the event is shocked, still clutching blackberry buckets in their stunned stupor. Such tragedy laced in such a devastatingly beautiful and colorful poem; I love it.
No comments:
Post a Comment