Three Poems By Isabel Chenot: ""Foreign Language", "Kite Flying", "On Seeing a Gull's Flight Reflected in a Wave"
Isabel has previously had poetry appear in the Anima poetry journal, on the
Atavic poetry site, and on Hedgerows small poems. She has loved poetry
as long as she can remember. The third poem included was written about
visiting a park by Lake Michigan.
If I could speak your tongue, Your scrawls – leaf skeletons — Would tell your thoughts among Curious combinations:
Bent lines, squiggles, Oblong spheres. Or if your words were Flung over grass, with fragile hulls Of seeds, I would infer
Autumn. I would look for a symbolic tree Standing near gaunt, inexplicably Written on earth’s page, illegibly Eloquent. I only see
This language, Trunk-twisted in exquisite Sentences. Is it a page Of poetry? — I wish
I knew — discerned your meaning – Or that my fingers groping, could interpret Textures out of lines baffling Significance. Could I regret
Knowing a thing expressed in such Peculiar beauty? — If hidden thoughts were hung In crumbling leaves the touch Of which enabled me to speak your tongue?
I wish my sentences were string, tethering My typing fingers from which letters spin To meanings — stretched gauze weathering The wind — bright tatters crucified to thin Frames flying with unfastened birds — Their wings outspread in crosses, like my words.
On Seeing a Gull's Flight Reflected in a Wave
I know now what I am: fluidity Described with grace – shadow of gull Catching along a wave – beauty Of mirrored wing along a beautiful
Upsurging twist, broken quickly and lost In chaos. My blood pounds to my skull: Motion of waves, pulse and return, the toss And lull,
While every wingbeat says – your heart is this. Though many waters thunder in your veins, Your heart is just a shadow catching its Own image in the plains
Between the crests, something in flight. Your heart Is like the bird whose white inverted lift And ebb hovers above the dart And drift,
The feather spread and gathering Of white-tipped water on the margin of The blood – the body’s fluid shattering Of the reflected heart’s wingbeats of love.