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Best Famous Jennifer Reeser Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Jennifer Reeser poems. This is a select list of the best famous Jennifer Reeser poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Jennifer Reeser poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Jennifer Reeser poems.

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12
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Imagining you'd come to say goodbye..

 Imagining you’d come to say goodbye,
I made a doll of raffia and string.
I gave her thatch hair, and a broomstick skirt of patchwork satin rags.
Around each eye I stitched thick lashes.
Such a touching thing she was! That even you could not debate – impassive, undemanding and inert.
Yes, surely she’d cause you yourself to sigh.
Around her breast, I sewed a loden ring to guard her cotton heart from being hurt, then sat down in the fabric scraps to wait, between the rafters and the furnace grate, needle in hand, and never so aware no craft on earth is master to despair.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Miscarriage

 Fold this, our daughter’s grave,
and seal it with your kiss.
For all the love I gave, you owe me this.
Inside of me, she had your lips and tongue, my air of grimness, thin and sad, with your thick hair.
Inside of you, I trust, she was a simple mesh of need and paper, lust – potential flesh.
And there was such pure song in life begun from you, I held the dead too long, as women do, but leaving like you did, when only I could feel the biding, body, bid of what was real, she’s put out with the cur, the garbage, heartache, cat.
Promise you’ll sing to her.
You owe me that.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Civic Centre (for Kathryn)

 Moscow ballet at seven in the evening.
You look at everything.
You lay your cheek against my shoulder, smoothing down my sleeve, the Russian blizzards somehow less than bleak, portrayed with whimsy on the backdrop screens in dolloped watercolors as they are.
I ask if you know what their movement means.
You wish our situation not so far.
And everywhere, the audience defies convention and conformity, some dressed as though they had been made to improvise at the last minute, some in black-tie best.
You’re happy, in new satin, having run your fingers countless times from hip to hem – Anastasia, whereas I am anyone in tan, beside a jade and garnet gem.
With clarity and ease like these a-stage, comparison with any else in life seems but the smart annoyance of an age, scissors beside a blunted paperknife.
“Sit up.
Pay close attention.
Sugar Plum is dancing with such dignity,” I tell you, half-disheartened, when I hear you hum, you know Tchaikovsky’s symphony so well.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Blue-Crested Cry

 We’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through, we’re through
and – flanking, now, the edges of our schism –
it seems your coldness and my idealism
alone for all this time have kept us true.
Credulous I and hedonistic you: opposed, refracting angles of a prism who challenged sense with childish skepticism – and every known the bulk of mankind knew.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Elizabeth Leaves A Letter For Dr. Frankenstein

 Whether the clouds had abandoned Geneva that evening
no one can say now, but what I remember are roses
bruised at their edges, and china cups yellowed with age.
“I am too sick of interior vapors,” I told you, “Find us a corner of sunlight, and hammer it down.
.
.
Tell me again I’m so lovely the insects won’t bite.
” Do you remember it, Victor? A time before pleasure turned into sacrilege hungry to threaten the dead.
So many secrets you whispered -- but I, like a child drawn to myself, hale and hearty to hear my own weeping, bored by your ghost stories, left you both late and too soon.
Sunshine deserted or altered the tops of the grasses subtly, with each changing breeze, as the shadows required -- dark, but not black, like my hair; and you claimed that each instant some auburn-browed woman appeared, I re-entered your mind.
Later or sooner, our futures will enter it, too.
Now, though, it seems hope’s a difficult vision to conjure; what you imagine of beauty so lodged in grim trivia even the sentences spoken inside it are dark.
Mourning will fade, though, I know -- like your Ingolstadt nightmare.
Bells will resound.
I will come to you.
All will be well.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Good Friday 2001 Riding North

 Yellow makes a play for green among
the rows of some poor farmer's field outside
the Memphis city limits' northern edge.
A D.
J.
plays The Day He Wore My Crown, not knowing it entices into tears this woman never once disposed to travel the holiday before.
My children squander unleavened bread brought forth from Taco Bell.
What sacrifice of mine could be worth mention? Enshroud it.
Christ's is death enough to mourn.
Casino Aztar, Blytheville slide from view, their souvenir and deli stations yielding to miles of scrub-packed, newly-cultured meadow -- the man beside me rushed at the expense of all around him.
Gripped by sentiment at being once again in this, the country his innocence absorbed, he sings the songs of artists prone to praise the great Midwest, prodigal farms and wheat.
My eyes are burning.
An eighteen-wheeler whip has somehow managed to drive his truck straight up a grass embankment which rises to an overpass ahead.
It lingers there, a sacrament of chrome, as I make peace at length with pink crape myrtles, white baby's breath in bloom, whose counterparts have two months past surrendered back at home.
How long were they bent down, exhausted, jealous for what could not be theirs, before they fell? And did the lilies of Gethsemane cry out with all their strength for God's relent, or were they sweetly mute as these I see?
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

The Neighborhood

 I wish I could,
 like some, forget,
and never anguish,
 nor regret,

dismissive, free
 to roam the street,
no matter how
the visions meet.
Remembrance is a neighborhood where convicts live with great and good, its roads of red, uneven brick, whose surfaces – both rough and slick – spread out into a patchwork plan.
Sometimes at night I hear a man vault past the fence, and cross the yard, my door chain down, and me off-guard.
He curses, threatens, pounds the door.
I’m wedged between the couch and floor, ungainly, barefoot, limp and pinned, scared of the dark, without a friend, with only one clear thought, that I – like him, like you – don’t want to die.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Compass Rose

 I’d buy you a Babushka doll, my heart,
and brush your ash-blonde hair until it gleams,
were Russia and our land not laid apart
by ocean so much deeper than it seems.
I have an oval pin, though -- glossy lacquer hand-made in Moscow, after glasnost came, with fine, deft roses on a background blacker perhaps, than history’s collective shame.
I’ve done my best to compass you with roses: the tablecloth, the walls, the pillowcase, the western side-yard only dusk discloses briefly, in Climbing Blaze and Queen Anne’s lace.
May they suffice for peace when you discover your love is not enough to turn the earth.
I dream I saw a handful of them hover against my pane the morning of your birth.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

This Night Slip In His Honor (after Komachi)

 This night slip, in his honor
flipped inside out – of lace-
edged netting – is the color
of Shaka Zulu’s face;

of panther flower at midnight
where crow and boa doze;
of vertigo and stage fright
in frail Ophelia’s clothes.
I wear it as a symbol.
Its ripped, Chantilly trim I fixed without a thimble, was pricked and bled for him.
A torn band may be mended, but what if he and I disband, no longer blended? My spine turned to the sky, reflecting on my dresser from mirror-fine sateens: the Great Bear with the Lesser… I dream of Shoji screens, and when desire becomes an overlaying itch, the throbbing in my thumbs untenable to stitch, sleek, fitted, with the passion of Shaka Zulu’s face, reversed and fringe-of-fashion, I put it on, in place of achromatic egrets, the vacant crystal ball.
Victoria has secrets.
I am her baby doll.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Should You Ask At Midnight

 What would I do without your voice to wake me?
Cor ad cor loquitur, I’m loath to know.
Kitsch operas sound, unhesitant to shake me, The sheers undrawn, the heavens hardly showing, My camisole askew, of lace-trimmed black – Not red, not white; not passionate or pure.
I raise the volume, and the voices crack— Vanilla scores: accessible, obscure.
But what would I do without your certain voice? Disjecta membra .
.
.
I am loath to think.
This negligée is sable, but my choice If black had been forbidden, would be pink: The blood of ballet satins, quartz, the lover, That cut from which I never could recover.
12





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