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Best Poems Written by Margot Weidemann

Below are the all-time best Margot Weidemann poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Tea Bow

When dusk was the tea candle
interrupting a rain-soaked page of sight,
I read it inside a subway train
one warm Manhattan night.

I sat and watched it haunting me,
with light born through the window.
It glimmered inches beneath my throat,
it floated golden brown,
endowing the proportions of a saint
on all the frame fallen round me.

It was cosmic vision of eternity, 
but still no saint lives here,
it was a ray of light of cheer,
the wax of this vision tearing own ears off,
a puppet born of silence, and yet
a peace can be said to have been 
seen there,
there in that glowing reflection.

It was a warm heron flickering blue flame 
deep within that cave of thundering trains,
with hegemony of lace, 
with concordance of tripes,
 it follows noone now.

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Hothouse Flower

Hothouse flower steamed, 
your petals pressed against the glass,
all your colors raining down
round boiling letterbox,

a letter from whom, they whisper
in the next room, is he tall, or
does he draw, is he masked
and does he ask
if you can dream of lifetimes past--

ice clay pallor,
will he wander 
through the fog to find
your petals become waterlogged,

will he touch or want it much,
the frozen limbed and
green-eyed bunch,

inflamed until the heart is pounding,
all the doubts arise resounding,
passion proves a wicked thing,
to make you drunk on how it sings.

When you hear its first note calling
the poison song of coal black berry,
you will know its weight 
to be more than you can carry
winter, summer, fall or spring.

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Language

Our lips they chafe and chatter 
at the astonishing matter
of the bumblebee, the passing bird,
we let our guard down in innocence, standing free
against the winds, to peel back nature's coat of arms
to find her heart wiggling inside her scars.

The bird is soft as silk we say, let us give it a dozen names,
and classify its lineage 
to match the tree and human age,
Let us part her hair and feathers so to remind us how
we all have grown.

In naming our surroundings, in discovering and teaching
we touch like children the running the brook the ecstasy of lightning,
the orchid the flames on the Ganges and the bitter bursting
oil in lanterns,
I should go on, because the world still does, and it will do, and we are 
running
to catch up, but I sail from this ledge to remind you, Imagination--

We live in teams of hearty explorers racing down suburban streets with 
flags
to define our victories.
We remain cloaked in excitement, it will never leave us,
there is too much restrained in our throats, too much we have 
experienced with only half a heart
to fully understand in words, what a gift this
life has given.

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Wolfish

Cavernous and queer, those eyes that
stare, and they stare and they stare
and they stare,
and a strange, ringing bell peals a tone
rare and clear, and its clear, clear as
day, clearer still.

I do wonder what the wolf would say, if
he talked, as he walked
through his wood 
at night.
I’d ask him what he’s got in there, in
that big, shaggy head, on his path, in the dark
and I’d stare.

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The Beyond Belief

One mint balloon dreams ceiling
to keep it from the sky, and
such balanced vision
steadies days by and by.

Until one day it takes a breath,
emboldened by greater sight--
one great sea has turned all gold from all the light.
With eyes turned desirous to float ever high,
one mint balloon adopts a new flight.

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The Guest

The moon,
a medicine bottle shaking silt and shadow,
drunk to the bottom by
shifting clouds, thirsty for the
the stilt man stalking
pitch roof Brooklyn
warm night July.

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Seven's Green

And if somehow, through fault of heaven,
I was green and you were seven,
if the hour kept us such,
no, it could not matter much,
for both of us in knowing things,
would each jump forth, and sprouting wings,
traverse cross ever greater heights,
hailing cousin of wisdom, ecstatic light,
and making peace in such a home,
might join hands, 
might forever roam.

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Pail

I was not sorry to see my heart creep so,

plodding brick elephants of snow,

I was not sorry to see my heart go.


I sent it off my all my might,

rather, it best should have gone

long before daylight,

I kissed it soft as dead flower sewn,

my eyes its eyes,

my song its song,

and never could a move prove wrong,


thus my heart crossed pitiless night,

with swell of glass in art of flight,

I could not mourn to see it go.

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Elements

I caught the mystery of the tide,
from sea and passing sea, 
I coughed it deftly
in one palm to look upon and see,
what made it move, what made it smile, 
thoughtful and free, 
thought that 
might let me be.

Nothing came from all my eyes, though
it rocked so soft I thought I’d cry,
a small wind reaching wrist to wrist,
tongue obsessing in the fist,
junkie thriving on its lust, with
high eyeballs disguised as rust,

sheltered trees where 
brothers work on 
cars all day,
beneath the shade, in 
gravel way,
I wear their tee-shirts, look at snakes,
jump off dock in mother's lake, 
watered mirror
for mirror’s sake.

Details | Margot Weidemann Poem

Possible

Of Nature she dreams 

of delicate things, fine silver rings,

sketches of Springs.

How hot her eyes in

lurid living dream, 

capturing

impossibility,

and this train and tunnel,

naturally,

not sad, nor are they bad at all.

Often they travel, hot, in her head 

and in her heart,

awakening with a cork blown start,

the guest of house, courageous

chest, bathed and swathed 


in sheets of lead.


How does he dream,

it seems an impossible thing.