Monday, January 23, 2023

Soundbite In The Dead Of Winter

A rose 
 
                    I know Gertrude 
                    Needed it 
 
                    Said four times but 
                    Nonetheless this deep
 
Is a rose 
 
                    Red one by it- 
                    Self in 
 
 
                    A wide-mouthed shining sky- 
                    Blue vase on my desk plainly 
 
Is a rose 
 
                    Doesn’t need her repeating 
                    Herself one bit.
 
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4 comments:

  1. Fine poem and tribute to Stein and the rose. I pause at the final "one bit," wonder if the poem should end with "Herself," then see how the final word "bit" connects up to the poem's title. The poem is elegant. I like how it can be read at least two ways, depending on how the reader decides to experience it: each "column" read as a poem (first Stein's, then Zambaras') or a sort of duet. And it has a freshness, as if the poet sees the rose and begins talking to himself, to us, to Stein, and -- in the third person rather than the second -- to the rose.

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  2. This is just to say I have read your very enlightening exegesis--thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you--Gertrude would've been quite proud of you.

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  3. Everyone, living and dead, involved in this conversation makes me smile. Wryly in the case of Aunt Gertrude, who occasionally stumbled into seriousness, but not this time.

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  4. Your comment also makes me smile, old friend, because I see you still have that engaging poetic sense of humor--thanks for dropping by and reminding me of it.

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