These two poems by Kathryn Temple draw on images from the natural world to raise questions about the risks and rewards every artist faces…
by: Kathryn Temple
Broken Glass
The water on this glacial lake reflects
nothing that you can’t already see;
reflection here is perfect imitation,
the trees have doubled their russet leaves,
while willows see their weeping tears repeat,
all is perfectly still, even the great blue heron
halts above his mirror image, as if posing
for a special session shot.
Then, snapping turtle dives, he stirs
the minnows, spooks a dozing shiner,
startles sunfish from their safe routines,
then snaps the shiner quite in two.
Don’t look down, you risk all sanity
if you peer below the clouded water,
nature is so red in tooth and claw,
the headless shiner slowly sinks,
the snapping turtle lifts his head,
hooked snout above the surface,
blinks, it seems, in your direction,
then dives again.
Parachute
How much of myself do I put in
to this, I mean
these poems, do I parachute in,
an unwelcome guest at the party,
insert myself, clumsy, faltering,
here I am, this is me, look at my beach
rock, my moon rock, my glittering snow
globe, behold all that I am or
am I already here in what I see, what
I claim to know, can you sense me in the
Great blue heron standing on one leg,
dark eye ringed in violet, narrow head
on a long neck, his spiked beak spears an
unwary perch, he swallows, this perch
becomes a wriggling lump, alive, but dying,
it’s slow, sometimes I take live words,
swallow them, they die like that.
Down the creek, a blue teal teaches
her chicks to flop onto the dock,
jump back in the water. Awkward, they line up
like kids at the high dive, tug at their suits,
back up, step forward, back again,
who will be first? Is this even a good idea?
It's only blue water, she seems to say.
Jump.
