two poems by Laura Solomon



[untitled]


and there is little that has not been said before about a cotton blossom
and little that has not been said before about a copper pheasant
and little that has not been said before about a mirror
how the cotton blossom blooms how the copper pheasant cries
unconsolably it cries for its mate it cannot find
and how all of the town and its environs could hear the creature crying
and how all the people grew morose at the sight of a cotton blossom blooming
as accompanied by the sound of a copper pheasant crying
how none could admire the blossom as they were wont to do
how none could sleep for the pheasant’s incessant selfish crying
and how the town tried many tricks
how the elders tried talking sense to the bird
how the men and women tried first to comfort with their mouths before covering up their ears
how the kids threw rocks (they had been instructed)
and how when so near to death the bird had come and cried all the more for this
down from the mountain came a hermit
who alone consoled the bird by putting before it a mirror










White Flowers


perfect snow
perfect snow
you are eating
the hardest part of the parmesan
                              it melts
                          you laugh
                     place a piece of rind in my mouth and say
                              you have to make it wonderful
                              to suck a bit


now you are falling asleep
                        you snore
               your hair floats and gets stolen by angels
you snore
            as if snoring might wake you
                      might write you
                   a story
             something to tell
in the morning
                      it’s so hard to tell
             angels from demons
                   this thought from that
                                     everything
floating and getting
                      stolen from your mouth
              and mine

                                     and the hardest part
                                     and the hardest part

           the parmesan doesn’t want to melt
           the story doesn’t want to tell
                                          anymore
                      the same old story
                                          it’s boring you snore but you snore
                            as if you were trying to tell me something
                 very important

        my thoughts
     not yet my thoughts
become a book you read in the dark and in this way
     we talk about the angels who are not yet demons


is it any wonder I cannot sleep
                                  the angels no longer angels
                             keep forcing me
                                  inside them to play
                             keep forgetting to invite me
                                  inside them to play
    the cycle repeats
one is suddenly sullen then suddenly invited
    I am suddenly invited
the cycle repeats

is it any wonder I cannot sleep

                             the cycle repeats it breathes
                                  like all things truly free
                             it has no choice

and the angels sing they have no choice
they are angels and angels sing
and this is what the angels sing

                             that every song is a story
                                  born of an ending
                             that ends in birth
                                  that the cycle repeats and no one is sure
you snore
    I think
you sleep
    I think
you breathe
    I think
you read the book where my mind should be and in this way
    I write for you a dream in a language you’ve always known but never learned


now we are walking again in the green green world
wonderful wonderful energy
even the trees are sexual
inside the park where the weather is
beside the lake where the water has been
have I been
before
               and where is your hair now
somewhere very near
           the sun being born in the blue fur of the sky
everything is breathing and breathing
           is everything you say
                  you have to make it wonderful
                           you have to breathe
                  you have to be free
                           you have to be free to breathe but you have to breathe to be free
to make it wonderful to lose yourself inside the angels

and me I do and I don’t want to play
           the demon anymore
beyond the dream where the hard food must be chewed
           carefully carefully
                to avoid choking to death
inside my stomach where your heart has always been
           the book I want to read
unsaid
           snow and our words white flowers
                beginning to bleed
almost spring