Meet Me on the Bridge of Flowers

Stealing gold in the early hours
like some budding pyrovoyant.
The sun is the only thing that’s true
as ink knows joy on promise of paper.

When did I become older?
Bare feet meet wet kiss of grass
as ink knows joy on promise of paper.
The sun is the only thing that’s true.

A voluptuous whispering
lifts my hair in greeting.
The sun is the only thing that’s true
as ink knows joy on promise of paper.

I’ll make a belt of all my tools
like Kali wears a skirt of arms.  
As ink knows joy on promise of paper
the sun is the only thing that’s true.

© N Nazir 2021

Image from Unsplash

Written for dVerse Poetry Prompt, hosted by Grace. Write a mirrored refrain, a rhyming verse form constructed by Stephanie Repnyek.

*Apparently there is a real Bridge of Flowers in Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts. The image above is not it. I chose this because it was the closest to the scene I pictured.

This Keen Wind is a Lean Wind

Untitled, digital photograph, © N Nazir 2021

Petrichor calms the wild of my backfooting

through the universe.  

I dispense with small talk.

For there are cool eddies of blue,

slabs of wood so comforting 

you could curl up on the atlas strength of them

and fashion a table.  

I long so much for this table. 

I long also to still

this vexing thwart of wind

that makes my camera tremble.

© N Nazir 2021

*I’m not always good at titling poems. I’m trying to give it more thought lately. I like those titles that give the reader an extra clue as to what’s going on. I didn’t know what to call this poem so I opened a nearby book at random and came across the line: “what if a much of a which of a wind” which is an E.E. Cummings poem. The first line of the second stanza inspired my title.

Having said that, I really don’t know much about E.E. Cummings at all, and I should aspire to become more well-read with the poetic greats. If you wish, you can read his poem here.

Written for Sammi Scribbles Weekend Writing Prompt: Thwart, 63 words

Recipe for Cooking a Poem

Hold a few sparse ingredients in your mind
then toss them onto the page.

Pick out the plump ones
the pulp ones
the gift ripe ones.  

Pluck the corn from the husk 
then toss onto a new page.

Watch them jostle, marinade, lie still.

Stir them awhile
play with them
mould them
keep them alive.

Sometimes sparks may fly.
Other times, a gentle bubbling.
Simmer for a day or two.

Then cast a fierce eye over the result.

They say a good poem always yields 
a particular scent of knowingness.

Like the skin on hot chai
protects what lies beneath
it gives itself for nourishment
on spare humpback days.

It won’t be to everyone’s taste.
It doesn’t matter.

Some people like truffles
others prefer toast.

© N Nazir 2021

Shared for dVerse Open Link Night hosted by Mish.