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Eden: Poems
Hardcover
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About the author
Maggie Helwig
32 books21 followersMaggie Helwig (born 1961) is a Canadian poet, novelist, social justice activist, and Anglican priest.
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January 29, 2022
On the tongue of the dove
there is no way to speak; but say
that this is so.
Say you are walking on a point of sunrise
and your eyes are on orange horizon
or say, there is the light that turns
around the fingers of golden roofs in a city, green
that is not the accidental green
of pity and grass.
The wind passing clear over ribs
the fire in the seed, spires
of branches in the spine
the awful line of joy around your limbs. Speaking
fall of the golden blood.
Burning out of the falling wood turn the cries
of the world naming
Or say
there are wings.
* * *
The rocks and shadows of rocks
along the edges.
The rocks you can walk through if challenged. The shadows
are more difficult.
Imagine it like a plank fence in darkness, shining
with light from an empty window
and one bird calling.
There are no lakes, bu certain places
shine like mercury.
Oranges grow, strawberries, pineapple
and a green fruit with marmalade flesh.
This by way of the rocks.
Those who come through the shadow
leave red handprints on the trees
and new wheat grows where they walk.
* * *
The sky sun-daggered diagonal always, red and gold,
between the leaves the are thick
in clusters here and there
or feathered like the shapes of hands -
more strange at times.
Those
glossy as wing-backs, smooth and dark
as black slate mirrors
those hard and clear, and in appearance
near rose windows
those that split at times and fill the air
with drifts of seeds.
But it is said
they cast no shadows on the ground
or else at one time they did not, or again
will not until they gather
and there will be rain.
* * *
We hear that the city is arming
and that knives and neon
play in their skies at night.
We hear in the desert, by the burnt walls
the prophets are crying.
When banshee feet
run through our grass, their heels kick clouds of scent
vanilla and wine.
Do you remember
the time we stood within a fire
cool and glad?
Do you remember the eyes, the hands?
Long pods that rattle chocolate-brown on branches
turn to a dry horizon;
bent lemon trees and cactus
mark the city's winter.
We dream in our dark of the whips of the snow.
They say in the city soldiers and travellers
go for protection wrapped in skins.
On the border the bushes
wail like a blizzard.
The angels gather.
* * *
Say in a market, or better
on the metal rack in the cooler
of a grocery-store -
beside the tomato in plastic, the tin of cheese spread
or the bacon. I mean
in that usual place, at four in the afternoon
on a Tuesday, maybe.
Say it was there.
An apple the size of a hand, skin smooth
and shiny, the red
paling to green at the stem and speckled
with fugitive colours, yellow or tan;
one side more round than the other, a sort
of rise and sinking
And in its flesh, the tiny crescent
still cold silver
from the flaming sword.
Do not
attempt to speak a word, or reach
to hold it, but regard.
In a single clear drop of its juice
the blood of the garden
first falls in the city.
there is no way to speak; but say
that this is so.
Say you are walking on a point of sunrise
and your eyes are on orange horizon
or say, there is the light that turns
around the fingers of golden roofs in a city, green
that is not the accidental green
of pity and grass.
The wind passing clear over ribs
the fire in the seed, spires
of branches in the spine
the awful line of joy around your limbs. Speaking
fall of the golden blood.
Burning out of the falling wood turn the cries
of the world naming
Or say
there are wings.
- Preface, pg. 7
* * *
The rocks and shadows of rocks
along the edges.
The rocks you can walk through if challenged. The shadows
are more difficult.
Imagine it like a plank fence in darkness, shining
with light from an empty window
and one bird calling.
There are no lakes, bu certain places
shine like mercury.
Oranges grow, strawberries, pineapple
and a green fruit with marmalade flesh.
This by way of the rocks.
Those who come through the shadow
leave red handprints on the trees
and new wheat grows where they walk.
- Geographical, pg. 17
* * *
The sky sun-daggered diagonal always, red and gold,
between the leaves the are thick
in clusters here and there
or feathered like the shapes of hands -
more strange at times.
Those
glossy as wing-backs, smooth and dark
as black slate mirrors
those hard and clear, and in appearance
near rose windows
those that split at times and fill the air
with drifts of seeds.
But it is said
they cast no shadows on the ground
or else at one time they did not, or again
will not until they gather
and there will be rain.
- On the Observation of Clouds, pg. 25
* * *
We hear that the city is arming
and that knives and neon
play in their skies at night.
We hear in the desert, by the burnt walls
the prophets are crying.
When banshee feet
run through our grass, their heels kick clouds of scent
vanilla and wine.
Do you remember
the time we stood within a fire
cool and glad?
Do you remember the eyes, the hands?
Long pods that rattle chocolate-brown on branches
turn to a dry horizon;
bent lemon trees and cactus
mark the city's winter.
We dream in our dark of the whips of the snow.
They say in the city soldiers and travellers
go for protection wrapped in skins.
On the border the bushes
wail like a blizzard.
The angels gather.
- The Fear of the Garden, pg. 35
* * *
Say in a market, or better
on the metal rack in the cooler
of a grocery-store -
beside the tomato in plastic, the tin of cheese spread
or the bacon. I mean
in that usual place, at four in the afternoon
on a Tuesday, maybe.
Say it was there.
An apple the size of a hand, skin smooth
and shiny, the red
paling to green at the stem and speckled
with fugitive colours, yellow or tan;
one side more round than the other, a sort
of rise and sinking
And in its flesh, the tiny crescent
still cold silver
from the flaming sword.
Do not
attempt to speak a word, or reach
to hold it, but regard.
In a single clear drop of its juice
the blood of the garden
first falls in the city.
- The First Escape, pg. 41
Displaying 1 of 1 review