inside down-filled bags.
Our young tribe held close
through the night inside
dreaming bodies, we run
together to the edge
where we swim under curls
of alpha waves out of mind
and sight of the bleaters.
The soil is a woman
under the floor of our tent.
We trap dew to water
the shoots, grass and clover.
due to rules against speaking
the combination of certain words
We pray the words we can not say
like still and born,
like the brown sugar hair
of girls we've never seen.
Warily we keep the ground
and tend ourselves, our small herd,
crop grafted into flock.
Note:
This is an introductory poem of a series I've been working on for the past year about the Vegetable Lamb of Tartary. As part of my research I ordered a copy of this book which turned out to be ex libris from the Liverpool library. (!) It smells great.
The poems (I hope) will accumulate into the story of a fictional world, focusing first on the boys who care for the vegetable lambs and the rituals and traditions that surround these practices, then expanding to the village from which the boys are taken as infants to serve in the role of shepherds until they reach puberty.
There are some dependencies amongst the poems, so I don't expect each will stand entirely on its own, but I hope for a little latitude on that front as I plan to post several in a row here. Of course, whatever feedback you are interested in providing is totally welcome. I'm hoping to incorporate the influence of PG members' poetry and opinions as I revise and continue writing these poems into a larger whole.
Cheers,
Wilcken





