Moon for Our Daughters by Annie Finch
Moon that is linking our daughters’
Choices, and still more beginnings,
Threaded alive with our shadows,
These are our bodies’ own voices,
Powers of each of our bodies,
Threading, unbroken, begetting
Flowers from each of our bodies.
These are our spiraling borders
Carrying on your beginnings,
Chaining through shadows to daughters,
Moving beyond our beginnings,
Moon of our daughters, and mothers.
photo Rose Cook
standing on two logs in a river
might do all right floating with the current
while humming in the
if one log is tied to a camel,
who is also heading south along the bank – at the same pace –
all could still be well
unless the camel
thinks he forgot something, and
abruptly turns upstream,
do not live in the present
and can stick to a reasonable plan; most minds abruptly turn
and undermine the
translation by Daniel Ladinsky
from Love Poems from God
photograph by Rose Cook
On Looking At The Beginning Of A Lifetime
All night, a growing sound
which opens the door
to allow a body through.
The day you were born
a mist rose from the river.
Seven swans flew over the bridge
their wings sounding damp air.
How can I write for you?
My heart is rapt, listening
to your soft breath.
We are still coming to ground.
poem and photo Rose Cook
(poem from Taking Flight by Rose Cook, pub Oversteps Books 2009)
I am very pleased to see three of my new poems published today by Clear Poetry. Many thanks.
Do have a look at www.clearpoetry.wordpress.com
Rose Cook is the latest poet to be featured here. Hearth is her newest collection, her fourth and like Notes from a Bright Field is published by the discerning Cultured Llama.
And the poems? Well, I don’t know what to say because they all give me goose pimples and it’s hard to be articulate about something that does that. Rose has a way of writing about personal experiences in a totally unsentimental way, while being characteristically frank. By employing simple but precise language each poem pierces your heart. She writes about motherhood, her son’s fall, her grief for the loss of her own mother presented through everyday actions like folding sheets, seasons, plants and wild creatures (in particular hares) and all are bound together by her distinctively observant eye, her compassion.
I think it’s her acceptance of life’s precariousness and what our bodies know about us that is a strong binding thread.
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