Poetry Samples
When my back was turned,
my child conducted
the strings, the woodwinds,
and the brass;
her sincerity was stunning.
She had a look of complexity
and musicianship,
her dress from the undergrowth
of the woodland was that of a oil painting.
She was strong and lean,
subsisting on blackberries
and wild game.
In the city, I found her
with a bow and arrow,
hunting a prey that should
be only in a deep wood.
Emily Isaacson, A Familiar Shore
O true Elder,
O true watcher of the people,
O true gain of wisdom,
O spirit of times past,
Remember!
O only illuminator
of the three dimensions of time,
(child, parent, elder)
Re-light!
O smoldering smudging burning,
O lighted flame of future vision,
Reignite!
O Sound advice from depth of night,
O Spirit of the ancient’s word,
O Dreamer of the life beyond,
O Wind of legend north,
O Teacher of the ways of earth,
Redirect!
--Emily Isaacson, City of Roses
Swaying in the lazy tall grass,
a long haired maiden
with song
wild as the wind, plucking
the seeded dandelions
to blow them for ransom
toward the rogue waves,
to the rambling tides.
An instrument in your hands,
I become the woodwind
like an oboe of Gabriel.
The pinnacle of afternoon
wafted sunlight through
the slated panes,
the icons I have observed
since my first renaissance
are kept carefully
in the most treasured
parts of a convent
where love is refined
and truth distilled
to pure
and vivid
water.
How do you show
me the way
on this path,
silver and shining
by moonlight,
lit bravely
by saints and legend:
all chanting, they surround me.
I sing of you.
My heart broke open,
and from its hearth stone
a sister took the bread of God,
broken with her careful hands
into pieces.
I decided to follow you to a new land,
and never leave you.
We walked arm in arm
down a dusty road, my skirts
a plethora of colors
noble and bold,
my hair oiled with perfection,
crowned with English flowers,
white roses revealed their plumage
and spilled perfume
over our necks of silver.
The people hung over their gates
and waved valiantly from their horses,
cheering at the sight
of our staple covenant,
bright as the meat of figs
falling from a ripe tree
with its constellation of seeds.
Ruth and Naomi of old,
we traversed from the land of hunger
to the countryside
where the sea winds blow,
where the winds blow in and out,
and from our sectioned window
watch the salt waves.
-- Emily Isaacson, Hours From A Convent
The Queen of Ives is mother of us all.
She doubled over in fiery pain to release us
and each star appeared, burning its way
through the galaxy.
She swallowed the goldenrod, and birthed
each sun and moon.
She grew a garden of vegetables
with food for every season,
grew from her tree olives and apricots, and
from her soil garlic and onions.
Deep within the deepest wood
she hides, as modest
as a young woman
with a velvet hood,
she sings to all who dare hear.
VI.
Her sister, the fields,
her brother, the mountains,
her mother, the moon,
her father, the sun—
her wild fare feeds you
and her neck of night
embraces you,
with stars, her diamond necklace.
Her eyes are made of
rock planets that turn to and fro.
The Queen of Ives
is both creator and destroyer
of all nature,
bringing it up from the earth,
then swallowing it beneath the salty waves.
VII.
The mighty Queen of Ives—
the earth is her cathedral,
her vast consecrated temple,
she hovers over the altar,
and calls to lovers,
“Come inside and be married,”
coaxing them to unite as family
and have children.
She is the realm of the fertile
in the heart of love:
The stained glass of sunset’s last glow,
the spiritual fervor of a burning fire,
the priesthood, presiding over the harvest,
the ocean’s motherhood,
salty waves of blessing.
VIII.
Rivet me and my eternal soul,
for I know the Queen of Ives
would dare me to outlive my fellow man;
yet she could not commit treason
against the infinite Prince of Alchemy.
For she is both nature and immortal:
standing, and fallen
as the snow,
she is poured out like rain,
and shouts like thunder.
“Brethren,” she calls: standing in a river
of fear and shame—deep as the Ganges,
“leave your mother and your brothers
and follow the blue moon home
to where the heron flies.”
--Emily Isaacson, Snowflake Princess
