Poetry and Blood
The leaves are budding on the trees. The buds
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats
of the dead ploughing through oceans of sky.
And then one week, bang, there is spring
and it feels like summer. You can almost hear
that popping and the blood quickens in the turtles
you’re minding, in that they’re slightly less spaced out
than usual. I read once that’s how reptiles work.
But for us in sun the blood slows down to dream.
There’s a pulse in the world you’re beginning to take.
The blood too sails through the long repair.
Eyes closed in the quiet you hear both beats.
There is you, which is good, who you like, and
then the trees ready to explode into light.
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Comments about this poem (Poetry and Blood by Luke Davies )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
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- Do accept, hasmukh amathalal
- A Bit On The Side, Rod Morris
- Some Things Should Not Have Been, Anita Khelawan
- Let not this earth be divided, gajanan mishra
- With situation, hasmukh amathalal
- Misery Loves Company, Bill Cantrell
- Hot Summer Tanka, Toshie Nohara
- No need to ask, gajanan mishra
- Truth, Tony Adah