Photo of the Day Poems – Post #13

This time last year, I was enjoying after-school baseball games at Forese Field in Grove City and winding down the school year in room 209, daily gazing at The Guardian‘s “Best Photographs of the Day” page as a source of poetic inspiration. Few of my poetry students took up the challenge to write a poem a day from these images, but I found it life-giving, especially as I monitored the cafeteria for forty-five minutes each day. These images marinated in my mind as I scribbled notes in my small journal, keeping the students guessing thinking I was taking notes on their behavior. These three Photo Poems take us from a natural maze in Scotland, to a May Day protest in France, and finally to an empty street marked with crosses in New Zealand. (All poems by Vincent H. Anastasi)

Peeblessshire, Scotland (4/30/19)
Photograph: MA Pushpa Kumara/EPA

Amazing

We are not mice methodically dropped
into the sterile labyrinth,
blindly nosing our way
through ancient trimmed hedges,
the variable walls our only reprieve
from wood chips and wire,
a bit of cheese our only consolation.
We are not cruelly tossed
into the confusing and elaborate
puzzle of the legendary artificer,
slave of the king.
Though the beast resides within,
we are not lost.
Having gone before us,
greater than Theseus,
He is the unicursal path to the center;
now seated, seeing from above,
He ushers us triumphantly into the eternal heart.


Paris, France (5/1/19)
Photograph: Gonzalo Fuentes/Reuters

May Day Demonstration

(a poem of only words made from letters in the title)

I am no monstrosity!
I daresay, I demonstrate
I am a man,
my tinder enmity
my damnation.
Tensions and emotions
detonate on May Day,
many men made monsters,
distorted into demons.
No moderation,
a nation made mad,
adamant men
admire animosity
one day in May.


Greymouth, New Zealand (5/2/19)
Photograph: Phil Walter/Getty Images

9 for 29

Nine seconds sprint in record time
to fame Jamaican and sublime.
Nine minutes is a deceptive tease
when sun still sleeps ‘neath horizon’s sheets.
Nine hours devours a third of the day,
exhaustion gnawing the span that remains.
Nine days hasten to needed rest,
the body ill-fitted to perpetual stress.
Nine weeks quarter the academic’s life
defining successes in blacks and whites.
Nine months carries an expected end
when love sown in secret finds new life again.
But nine years bears a ponderous weight
when exhuming the past calls for digging new graves.

Published by thedeepened

I am a lover of words - the way they sing together in neat or sprawling lines upon the page, conducted by the great wordsmiths of all time. The way a sudden turn of phrase or surprising combination of sounds resonates with the deep within me, causing pause: moments of reflection and appreciation that transcend the superficial babblings and paltry visions of the infantile. Here at the deepening ground, it is my intent to make time and space for the reflection, appreciation, and creative imaginings that sustain the human soul.

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