Saturday, March 27, 2010

At the river

Where the river curves low
and slick as a black snake’s back,
holding tight treasured minerals
in its cold, greedy grasp, just there
I imagine I can see the sun
glint for a fraction of a moment
off your amphibious sleek body,
a spy’s body, slipped in here
between the beginning and an old,
forgotten end, my friend

Where the river rumbles low
with the guttural throat
of an angry storm, there,
just there I remember how you
were clasped, held fast
by the icy, greedy fingers
of the mirror-black water,
your hair woven green as if
with ceremonial reeds, while the fish
danced their solemn, scaled dreams
in slow circles down your cheek
down your beloved, your still, soft cheek

Rachel Westfall
March 27, 2010

Sunday, March 14, 2010

As you hunted me

And another Christopher poem; the whole conversation is here.

As you hunted me

There would be snakes, but for the goats
who have eaten the grass, trudging
all dreaded-wool and ankle-bone
over the smooth, soft hill until
each blade is gnawed to the ground.

There would be snakes, if they had
anywhere left to hide, snakes to shelter me
from your pursuit, slivered arrows
pointed sharp at your heels, but instead
there is nobody here
but these silly, useless goats.

Rachel Westfall
March 10, 2010

Saturday, March 13, 2010

This place of goats

And another, from the poetry dual (duo?) with Christopher:

This place of goats

Only a madman would slaughter the goats,
see the wild look in their eyes
and yet still draw knife across hide.
We all know, in this village,
that the feral goats and slick-tongued snakes
are each but fractured visions
of Goddess, each black and red and white
bleating-scaled-slithering-nibbling beast
a fragment of divinity, that one celestial mind
which holds up this age-old hill.

Rachel Westfall
March 11, 2010

Friday, March 12, 2010

For Petals

Spring’s gold shadows stretch
yet winter still claims its prize
farewell, soft bunny

Miss Petals was the last of our bunnies. I found her yesterday morning, lying behind the guinea pig's cage. She had died in the night, peacefully. I think she was around 6 years old; she had lived with us for 4 years. We will have to wait until the ground thaws before we can make a grave for her.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Siren's song

Another Christopher poem. As promised. The full poetic conversation is here.

Siren's song

I’m so stuck here now.
Dreaming of kissing
your beloved face in
a fishbowl room
while all your raucous friends
look in from the summer yard
and jeer,
Who’ve you got there now, man?
Anyway, where did my shirt go?
I feel so exposed. If only
I hadn’t listened
to your confusing siren’s song.

Rachel Westfall
March 10, 2010

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


Okay, there are a few more poems coming from conversation with Christopher. If you like, you can read the whole conversation at his place, since there is nothing worse than hearing only one side of the discussion. Meanwhile, I'll post my parts of the conversation here, one by one.


Adventurous tourist
I headed into the tall grass-
bare ankles shrouded
in the full rayon skirt
local decorum required,
camera ready
to capture an image
of the largest bloody spider
I’d ever seen-
when a man called out,

HEY, watch for snakes!

Rachel Westfall
March 9, 2010

Monday, March 8, 2010

Your warm rose heart

There was a place, once,
where you whispered close, dark things,
mysteries and embroidered words;
and there was a place, once,
where I dreamed I knew
the answers. Now it’s as if
you speak a half-forgotten tongue,
encrypted by ill-use
its poetic rhythm dancing
Mediterranean songs across my ear,
their meaning irrevocably lost.

Rachel Westfall
March 7, 2010

in response to Christopher