| Author: | Ms. Karla K. Morton | ISBN: | 9781680030136 |
| Publisher: | Texas Review Press | Publication: | September 15, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Texas Review Press | Language: | English |
| Author: | Ms. Karla K. Morton |
| ISBN: | 9781680030136 |
| Publisher: | Texas Review Press |
| Publication: | September 15, 2014 |
| Imprint: | Texas Review Press |
| Language: | English |
This collection, Morton’s tenth, is a bold book of poetry delving into risks. It’s the moving forward; the constant discovery of new things. Using a combination of quotes, mythological images, and exquisite metaphors from nature, Morton delivers poems that describe the absolute urgency of giving one’s heart over to life, the burning drive to have faith in the world, the insistence that everything, in its own way, is holy. This book is unfettered joy.
**Tending Fires **
I wanted to write a sonnet last night,
because that’s what lovers do, but the fire
needed tending, and all I could think of
were your shoulders, and that’s not romantic,
so I put on another log, and thought
about that hot summer day underneath
that oak, when our shoulders brushed, and I blushed
at the nearness of you, and how we made
love that night . . . still . . . that’s not what I wanted
to write . . . But it’s you; you, my love. You are
my night and my morning, and the hot coals
beneath these logs . . . hear them hiss and whisper
like cicadas—cicadas of the trees,
and the summer, and of all things that burn.
This collection, Morton’s tenth, is a bold book of poetry delving into risks. It’s the moving forward; the constant discovery of new things. Using a combination of quotes, mythological images, and exquisite metaphors from nature, Morton delivers poems that describe the absolute urgency of giving one’s heart over to life, the burning drive to have faith in the world, the insistence that everything, in its own way, is holy. This book is unfettered joy.
**Tending Fires **
I wanted to write a sonnet last night,
because that’s what lovers do, but the fire
needed tending, and all I could think of
were your shoulders, and that’s not romantic,
so I put on another log, and thought
about that hot summer day underneath
that oak, when our shoulders brushed, and I blushed
at the nearness of you, and how we made
love that night . . . still . . . that’s not what I wanted
to write . . . But it’s you; you, my love. You are
my night and my morning, and the hot coals
beneath these logs . . . hear them hiss and whisper
like cicadas—cicadas of the trees,
and the summer, and of all things that burn.
