VERSEWRIGHTS
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives

Bethany W Pope


Machete

My father ran, fleet, through the forest
surrounding the base near Manila. He was
carrying me. I was at rest
on his sweaty shoulders. He swerved past mangoes blessed
with fruit that could kill me with swelling and pus.
My father ran, fleet, through the forest,
trying to beat his bloody past
into the moist path. The iconoclast of memory was
carrying me. I was at rest
while he remembered the man whose machete cast
shards of light on exposed bone and red, wet glass.
My father ran, fleet, through the forest,
breathing hard. The Naval police came slowly, lost
in contemplation of the same TV show that was
carrying me. I was at rest
while he clutched the trembling murderer to his breast,
trying to calm him with prayers and soft tenor susurrus.
My father ran, fleet, through the forest,
 
carrying me. I was at rest.

The Art of Translation

The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds
feeding outside the window. She bends, cleaning
her claws. The mystery of human words
confounds her. Scents inform; a large herd
of deer imprinted the garden at dawn, fleeing something.
The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds
(the ones at the feeder and the others: unseen, unheard)
their scent-trails paint the sky in streaks this evening.
Her claws and the mystery of human words
have something in common. She knows that her bipedal gods
use them as tools; she paws their legs and they nod, understanding.
The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds
she'd chase if only they'd open the door for her. She girds
herself for a long wait, sharpening
her claws. The mystery of human words
hangs around her like the scent-clouds around human heads;
unknown, uninterpreted, unread. Frustrated, she starts howling.
The Borrowed Dog contemplates the birds,
Her claws, and the mystery of human words.

The Dancing World

At night when the shadows 
roil across tarmac 
like speaking tongues 
and the foxes whirl 
in inhuman spires 
of noisy courtship, 
when the streetlights spread 
their jaundice across 
the chrome teeth of parked cars
slumped slumbering 
in their wasted oil, 
the ragged trees
resume their dancing. 

Cherry, oak, birch, elm, 
the tattered fronds of willow 
all draw up their roots 
from the soil we left them, 
taking hold of white fibers, 
both feet and skirts, they make 
their ancient procession. 

They share their sap 
with brothers who overwhelmed 
the shrunken Scot in stolen mantle,
shaded suddenly the window
that lit the bloodspots 
on his lady's tremulous hands.

There are not so many dancers,
now, nor men with eyes to see them.
It is safer, for us, to restrict 
our wonders, sacrificing Joy 
to barren rationality that fruits death.

But all times pass, 
and each word 
contains its opposite. 
We bear our shadows 
in our flesh, waiting to blossom. 

I flower in moonlight, 
I wheel with the fox. 
Their eerie throats 
are singing to me. 
I know the terrible 
Joy of the forests, 
bound in for now 
by our illusion of safety,
waiting to rise. 
We are so close to dancing.

​
Picture
Picture

Bethany W Pope's Profile

Complete Circuit

Venous red, her body streaks through the dark.
I feel her coming, a static surge, the
Xenon-like spark. Her body is so thin,
Ectomorphic in furs. Her dog-like bark
Never echoes on brick. I sit, cold on
Inclement concrete, waiting. I take no
Notice of the wet. Her approach is slow,
Thoughtful; current dulled to warning hum. This
Human is patient. She is no dog. Thrum,
Echoing thrum of her heart, felt through my
Bare fingers. Her dense pelt rests lightly on
Raw bones. I am the master here, alpha
Animal. My friendship will save her from
Cold death. Her electric love will save me.

​Note: This poem is a double acrostic
​

The Dancers on the Green

We gathered on the lawn to watch the old
Heroes mar their whites with mud and wet grass.
Open fields were made for dancing; yellow
Knots, fabric flags flapped from elbows and the 
Noise of sleigh bells sang; strange data.
Only the old bearded clown (a small tear
Wounding his motley) understood. As we
Stood there, watching those dancing old men, clowns
Went round the circle, seeking women, the
Handsomest girls. They carried cake in their
Ash-wood bowls, for fertility, a shiv
That planted babies in their wombs. No, I
Gladly refused it. I want no children;
Only poetry. It is like dancing.
​

In Borrowed Robes

The man is easily in his eighties,
shrunken in an old tweed suit, a plastic 
yellow daffodil pinned to his lapel. 
He stands before a room of poets, speaks
at great length of his love for a man who 
died at half his age. Still trying to shrug
into the long-dried skin of Thomas, he
recites verses 'in the style of'', acts out
the opening of 'Under The Milkwood'. 
I see what he would have liked to become,
had he the courage to create
without imitating. As it is, he's
bound himself to the shadow of an old
idea. His life's become a borrowed robe.

 Visiting Grandma: A Mystery

The unmerciful sun beat down on us, your live,
Heartbroken descendants. Florida oaks
Enshadowed the grave you bought to lie in. Deep
Planted, your husband and parents nestled among the roots.
A lie brought us here – and the desire to see your grave
Spread over with flowers. The single store open
(Tacky Walmart, of course) only had plastic blooms. Open 
Calla lilies, jonquils with a false, fabric sheen. No live,
Aromatically dying roses or browning hyacinth. These graves
Never seem to change much, sheltered by oaks.
No one leaves a mess, or visits. Thick roots
Ensnare the coffin of your husband. His deep,
Vainly struggling brain has leaked onto his suit. Deep 
Enough under earth, no one cares about stains or open,
Ridiculous flies – or suicide by starvation. Roots 
Break through conventions to suck our bone dry. We live
Expecting peace at the end of everything. These oaks
Brooke no illusions. Your parents lie in graves
Unshadowed by branches, identical graves
Right next to your plaque. Their dates are carved deep
In the iron plates that hide them; iron the colour of oak,
Extremely durable. Your father’s open
Declaration, ‘Veteran: WWI and WWII’ shows his life.
This discloses every major detail about the roots
He shot through our blood, genetic roots,
Ensnared in glory and struggle. The grave
Dedicated to your mother paints her life
Exactly as she wanted; ‘Wife and Mother.’ Deep
Aching mysteries surround you. Open
Dates under your name, no epitaph but oak-
Shadows. Mom said, ‘As though it were empty.’ Oaks
Hide the missing screws with sloughed leaves – plaque set on roots
And never bolted; earth that has never been opened.
Love secreted your ashes away, somewhere. No grave
Locked you down. We asked the undertaker. He looked deep;
Records remained. You never arrived, so you are almost alive.
In a cemetery, at the roots of an oak, your grave
Sits empty, waiting for us to open it up, dig deep
Enough to plant you so that something will live.

Note: This poem is an acrostic sestina

​

Comments?

***

​Thank you for visiting Tweetspeak VerseWrights.
© 2012-2018. VerseWrights. All rights reserved.:
Acrostic Poems
Ballad Poems
Catalog Poems
Charlotte Perkins Gilman Poems
Epic Poetry
Fairy Tale Poems
Fishing Poems
Funny Poems
Ghazal Poems
Haiku Poems
John Keats Poems
Love Poems
Math, Science & Technology Poems
Ode Poems
Pantoum Poems
Question Poems
Rondeau Poems
Rose Poems
Sestina Poems
Shakespeare Poems
Ship, Sail & Boat Poems
Sonnet Poems
Tea Poems
Villanelle Poems
William Blake Poems
Work Poems

To translate this page:
  • Welcome
  • All Poets
  • PoetryAloud
  • Inbox Peace
  • The Press
  • Journal Archives