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y’all the poem of the day today from the poetry foundation is in fact about star trek. love love loooove this.
the poet, dayna patterson, also wrote a gorgeous vulcan/spirk-ish poem entitled pon farr. i’m sure someone has shared it here before, but if not, you can find it here.
You are the tops I spin, knowing every groove in the grain. Once in a while, you choose a cup of sun. An ounce of soap. A thread of good. Your agency is the leash I live by. Sometimes, I gnaw at my restraint. Sometimes, I sew my eyes shut.
— Dayna Patterson, from “God the Mother Speaks of Agency,” published in Jet Fuel Review
God as adazzle and dim, a dappled thing, fluid like water, like wind. Like this marbled world. God as snail trailing galaxies, home-hauling. God as tree: bloom-bright- breeze-pollinating. They parent-forth in coupled beauty, two hemispheres fused in One Wisdom: Praise them.
— Dayna Patterson, from “Pied Beauty Redux,” published in Jet Fuel Review
...here we'll indoctrinate daughters in blue- domed sky seminary their heaven-hunger in the baptismal of a glacial river...
from “Self-Portrait as Rosalind with Topophilia and Heresy” in Titania In Yellow by Dayna Patterson
...Slipdrop these newbies, barefaced, in routine talkswap. Be not afraid to put a 'be' before, besmirch a phrase befeathered and adored. Try on endings: moonray? moongleam? moonwisp? Hibiscus tea tastes fairly moonbeam . . . ish....
from “How to Give Birth to Words” in Titania In Yellow by Dayna Patterson
Please list your assets and/or gross family income: All the trees of the forest, all the moss of river stones, every mushroom, toadstool, lichen, all lesser fairies, every moth, cobweb, peaseblossom, mustard seed, every sparking star, every flower's nectar, all nutshells, rainwater, honeycomb, tree blood... Briefly describe your motives for seeking to adopt at this time: Because I've swallowed a well full of echoes. Because my room's painted red and sculpted with delicate bones. Because the space between desire and hope is roughly 20 inches. Because mammoths haven't gone extinct in my veins. Because I'm an ocean with no whalesong, a river floating empty basket of reeds.
from “Titania’s Adoption Papers” in Titania In Yellow by Dayna Patterson
....if She's a shrine few bow to, few supplicate if She's a book no one reads, verses rich as incantation.... if She's a gold rush with no prospectors, a queen bee with no drones, honeycomb without attendants..... if She's the One and Only, not one of many... a gold seam for our broken -ness, our shards an arroyo parched for the rain of our praise if She's starscape, all dark and blaze and hungry for our eyes
from “If Mother Braids a Waterfall” in If Mother Braids a Waterfall: Poems by Dayna Patterson, p. 104
She's circling round these islands where we live our little lives. Her massive grace. Her godsome body.
from “Whale Watching” in If Mother Braids a Waterfall: Poems by Dayna Patterson, p. 103
