Melissa Lamberton

Melissa Lamberton

BROKEN EGG SUNSET

I’ve never seen the sky this color

sort of egg yolk around the edges,

but pale as milk above, until

deepening to a shade like that

of flowers.

Here, this will help, exactly

exactly like the color of the smell

of summer grass.

Not daytime green, when gnats

are as breathable as air, though more often

noticed—no, like this grass

beneath me, all shadow

scent and sound.

Lying here, the world is tipping

into night

in that gentle mess above me/below me

I’m waiting for first star.

The velcro earth catches me

with grassy barbs, but in a moment,

in a moment

the curving bowl of dusk

will slip, and tumble, and pour

upon me the omelet of a

dying day, minus the red

chili pepper sun.

—from Rattle #25, Summer 2006
Tribute to the Best of Rattle

__________

Melissa Lamberton: “I still remember every word of the first poem I wrote. I was in second grade, and I thought you could compress all the solemn wonder of nature into five lines about a tree. For me, poetry has always been a tribute to the passage of the moment. Whenever I write, I remember that second-grade girl and once again live in her simpler, more beautiful world. In real life I am a college student and a karate instructor with a secret fascination with medieval weaponry.”

Melissa Lamberton

IRAQI MUSICIAN

It has been still and hot all day, with spates of rain

unexpected and astonishing. But now the wind

comes spinning round, as if the song calls it.

He plays an oud, ten double strings, fingers

tracing the chords. Leaves

blow, gold and bronzed, lighting

a whirlwind of fire. Heavy and scented, the air tastes

of arid lands, forlorn and haunting.

He says, Iraq is my home.

He bends his head to the prayer

of an intricate lament.

Lost in this place where nothing seems the same,

the wind uncoils, leaps. Not pouring out

but pulling in, it fills the hollow instrument he holds,

and on its way, brushes each string.

No need for human fingers, here.

The wind will play its own.

This is where we are: hot desert sands

and cobalt sky. Sun-beaten hills, and all else

horizon. All bleakness here, but beautiful:

oases and wellsprings of clear water, and shorelines

white with salt. Oh, and the wind

that makes its own music in rock and sand

without listener, without chords.

—from Rattle #25, Summer 2006

__________

Melissa Lamberton: “I still remember every word of the first poem I wrote. I was in second grade, and I thought you could compress all the solemn wonder of nature into five lines about a tree. For me, poetry has always been a tribute to the passage of the moment. Whenever I write, I remember that second-grade girl and once again live in her simpler, more beautiful world. In real life I am a college student and a karate instructor with a secret fascination with medieval weaponry.”

Rattle: Poetry

… without pretension since 1995.

March 19, 2012

November 12, 2011