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downloadEvery so often I pull down a book of poetry from the shelf.

Then, like stabbing a finger to a map to choose a chance destination I flip the book open to a random page. Without judgment or censorship, I share what I find there with you.

Today I pulled Blood, Tin, Straw by Sharon Olds, random poem My Mother’s Pansies, at page 63.

I’d love to hear what you think, your reactions, what feelings or memories the piece evokes:


And all that time, in back of the house,
there were pansies growing, some silt blue,
some silt yellow, most of them sable
red or purplish sable, heavy
as velvet curtains, so soft they seemed wet but they were
dry as powder on a luna’s wing,
dust on an alluvial path, in a drought
summer. And they were ope like lips,
and pouted like lips, and had a tiny fur-gold
v, which made bees not be able
to not want. And so, although women, in our
lobes and sepals, our corollas and spurs, seemed
despised spathe, style-arm, standard,
crest, and fall,
still there were those plush entries,
night mouth, pillow mouth,
anyone might want to push
their pinky, or anything, into such velveteen
chambers, such throats, each midnight-velvet
petal saying touch-touch-touch, please-touch, please-touch,
each sex like a spirit – shy, flushed, praying.

Publisher: Alfred A. Knopf
SBN: 0-375-70735-2

Other “Off the Shelf” Selections.

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