PASS THE YAMS

Image result for yams

Where is poetry? In the Thanksgiving feast?
What is this that consumes, yet grows?
That takes away, yet more and more knows
All those wants, that want what they want the least,
Loving only the going, not what goes?

It has been decided that we will go outside,
Walk the grounds near the river and play with sticks,
Assemble outside, where hills and woods and bricks
Were long ago assembled, and old trails veer wide
Of tall grasses which hide the dangerous ticks.

We did some hiking and camping, true,
In places of historic value drawn on maps
Where the derby oversaw working class caps
And hanging out in the library I decided I really loved you,
Or knew it, by myself, in the Y, swimming laps.

But these are memories, and if I daydream,
And respond to you slowly, as our family members
Gather here to eat and then go to their separate slumbers,
I am, as you know, exactly as I seem,
In love with a muse, a mind—which is but a memory of hers.

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2 Comments

  1. noochinator said,

    November 24, 2016 at 3:55 pm

    Be careful, that can contains high fructuse yam syrup!

  2. maryangeladouglas said,

    November 24, 2016 at 9:32 pm

    It is a beautiful poem.

    I wrote this poem today wondering if Dylan Thomas would even be heard of if he was starting out as a poet now, the times are so obtuse.

    (even without the yams, which, gobbled down once a year wont hurt you).

    FOR DYLAN THOMAS IN THE DARK BLUE DUSK, THE DUST OF WORDS

    [for the poet Dylan Thomas, his every word]

    as you were singing that the givers of light
    would have no end that the green rills
    growing greener would furl in waves

    about us ever near and clearer from year to year and that the
    sun dipped in the clouds down low
    would ever arise

    somewhere farther beyond your white roads chrism
    we forgot that poetry is not prose
    and no longer gathered the rose upon rose

    the once upons.
    now the prismed web breaks apart
    and with it the human heart and where

    and what and how will the angels come
    to trouble the springs again
    so that healing begins

    when your voice is stilled
    when the news is all we know
    I cannot comprehend

    only that vaguely

    blue and darker blue with the dusk
    as your disguise the village from afar
    you view

    and weep for Wales
    for all that meant to you.
    and we go casting about in sighs

    mere ghosts of ourselves
    forgetting what you knew.
    and that bright words are wise.

    mary angela douglas 24 november 2016


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