four sonnets

 

  by Camille Martin

 

 

 

 

in the sea swim fishes.

if only you could see them.

it’s a quarter to three.

the clock has no hands.

the first moment of doubt:

what are you saying?

how should i answer?

all is how it should be.

birds peep.  lungs fill.

eggs break.  mills grind.

time presses.  maybe

this is a love poem.

we are not yet beaten.

there is no other guarantee. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

this is the tune that paper sang.

these are the words that graced the tune

that paper sang.  this is the loom

that wove the words that graced the tune

that paper sang.  this is the flame

that burned the loom that wove the words

that graced the tune that paper sang.

this is the fly that fanned the flame

that burned the loom that wove the words

that graced the tune that paper sang.

this is window that let out the fly

that fanned the flame that burned the loom

that wove the words that graced the tune

that paper sang. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

pomegranate surface beckons.  gladly, pomegranates

look to fledglings to cross indigo gulfs.  fledglings

fancy cliffs as befits going forth.  broken-in paper

under spider chandeliers.  spiders weaving seamless

rope unbeknownst.  indigo motion streaming

from a transparent nest.  unbeknownst, seamless blank

beckons.  blank flukes in a kingdom of pure ochre.  indigo

and ochre in a blank scape.  pomegranates gladly, blank

pomegranate sheen of sculpting light.  morning dew settles

on verbal sleep, nothing settled.  dusty plain under

wax flock.  spiders boarding pretend paper

boats.  fabricated gulf crossed by print on folded

cliffs.  indigo blanks going forth.  verbal

fledglings unbeknownst.  unbeknownst. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

cold windows quietly hoard iridescent ova, i write,

to begin at the brink of something that seems almost

attainable.  the prospect looms distantly in cool

meditation, not about to teeter into the first

warm breath to come down the pike and call it

home.  i’ve eaten the last morsel and become a stranger

to myself, as far away as orion wheeling slowing

across the sky.  plate empty, i dance to conjure

melted brooks, but the unmoved sun massively

shrugs off the confabulation of my phantom

gestures.  i’m already hungry for the freshly eaten feast,

but even this early in the game, i feel i must deceive

myself as once again synapses conspire to blurt out

a raucous draft of blooms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Camille Martin, a Toronto poet and collage artist, is the author of Sonnets (Shearsman Books, forthcoming) and Codes of Public Sleep (BookThug, 2007).  Her current project, funded by a grant from the Ontario Arts Council, is “The Evangeline Papers,” a poetic sequence based on her Acadian/Cajun heritage and her recent visit to Nova Scotia, where she participated in an archaeological dig at Beaubassin and researched Acadian and Mik’maq history and culture.  Her website is http://www.camillemartin.ca