Sappho's apple, the
one
left hanging in the tree.
Were the pickers careless?
Or accidental artists
who left a dangling
memory
for winter's cold forgetting
when proof is needed, wanted,
that summer came and
blossomed here
as all the world
can see.
can see.
Being last, the one
unpicked
is a chilly situation. You
shrivel and dry up by
way of lonely nights
where no one
hears you
where no one
hears you
wail or moan.
Put me in your basket.
Enjoy me crisp and juicy.
Pick me. Eat me.
Sappho, please
don't leave me there
alone.
don't leave me there
alone.
2 comments:
I have a fine press book of Sappho's poetry. So glad you discovered her.
I find your poem very moving, Kathleen. "Being the last one/and unpicked" is like a deep inner howl.
Maureen, I only just heard of Sappho last week at the Glenworkshop. If you ever find an aesthetically pleasing copy, buy it and I'll pay you back.
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