Isabel Chenot has previously had poetry appear in Indiana Voice Journal, the Anima poetry journal, on the Atavic poetry site, and on Hedgerows small poems. Recently a small collection (Leaves Like Spindrift) was published by Anima Poetry Press.She has loved poetry as long as she can remember.
 |
| Photo submitted by Isabel Chenot. See note below. |
Fallen Leaves
Something akin to thought
strews the year’s fold
along this swell
of evening frailty —
stippled gold,
fawn-brisk with flight,
touched tenderly
to clouded shriveling —
a quarter hour’s debris
of light.
7:30
The slender interruptions of the light
draw like a child’s unevenly ruled page
across the furniture, shadows of straight
vinyl blinds distorted on the surfaces and edge
of asymmetric contours in the pillows,
like a child’s unsteady lines:
still light writes fading alphabet until it glows
between the crooked shadows.
Light letters out each pattern that it finds,
like a deft hand guiding fragile lines.
Isaiah 27:1
Then You will kill the monster in the sea:
the bitter sea will feel land gently —
a trustful child
turning in long fought sleep.
So in eventual eased breathing,
all of sky’s hues will come to rest:
each ridge of sand
perfectly visible
through fathoms,
each little fish
around wading feet.
I will wade out of
my depth —
to see colored stones
and creatures,
glittering, sunken leaves —
no fear of monsters, or of nightmare,
or of drowning. For this I know,
the sea will be pure light around me.
What further could be emblemed
from what is known
for sheer tremoring clarity —
pellucid green,
wavering winged pink,
shattered glass rainbows
under every ripple’s corrugated seams?
Of the last margin’s
infant gold and blue —
when illumined sea
touches dim land,
tracing from memory —
a trustful child fingering bedclothes,
turning again
to dreams.
(Note: Over the summer we went to a few parks by Lake Michigan. One afternoon we wandered, winding up at a nearly deserted stretch of clear, gentle water, visible to its sandy bed. When the sun came out, the whole transparent vision (as far out as my eyes could translate) became a mass of shifting gold lines over sand ridges, a net thrown every instant by light. The image above was taken by my husband (I cried). Light filigreed the lake around me, a net drawing every shifting instant to awe. I remembered a phrase read that morning: 'He will kill the Monster that is in the sea.')
the bitter sea will feel land gently —
a trustful child
turning in long fought sleep.
So in eventual eased breathing,
all of sky’s hues will come to rest:
each ridge of sand
perfectly visible
through fathoms,
each little fish
around wading feet.
I will wade out of
my depth —
to see colored stones
and creatures,
glittering, sunken leaves —
no fear of monsters, or of nightmare,
or of drowning. For this I know,
the sea will be pure light around me.
What further could be emblemed
from what is known
for sheer tremoring clarity —
pellucid green,
wavering winged pink,
shattered glass rainbows
under every ripple’s corrugated seams?
Of the last margin’s
infant gold and blue —
when illumined sea
touches dim land,
tracing from memory —
a trustful child fingering bedclothes,
turning again
to dreams.
(Note: Over the summer we went to a few parks by Lake Michigan. One afternoon we wandered, winding up at a nearly deserted stretch of clear, gentle water, visible to its sandy bed. When the sun came out, the whole transparent vision (as far out as my eyes could translate) became a mass of shifting gold lines over sand ridges, a net thrown every instant by light. The image above was taken by my husband (I cried). Light filigreed the lake around me, a net drawing every shifting instant to awe. I remembered a phrase read that morning: 'He will kill the Monster that is in the sea.')
~Isabel Chenot
