deanna young: two poems

about poetry.

Mostly

what i want in this

is recognition, my words to greet you

from a distance

with a wave, to be friends up close.

To be honey

spiralling onto toast, that gold

and translucent

a strand of truth, words the taste

of what they say, pure

honey on your tongue, to come

from clover

via bees. To be food.

Young, Deanna. "Mostly" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.

Poemophobia

There are people walking the streets of the city

reciting poems under their breath. Poems

they have written or read, made up of words

so specific, none could be changed without grave damage

to the whole; nor the soul of the matter explained

without some great symphony of nakedness writhing.

They walk by your doorstep, you do not wave.

You suspect they might be crazy, and they might.

You distrust the subtle movements of their lips

and I don't blame you. I would do the same.

What choice do we have in a world of door-to-door

sermons, dressed up like truth in black and white.

I hear you. No poems are safe. Good night.

Young, Deanna. "Poemophobia" Drunkard's Path. Wolfville: Gaspereau Press, 2001.