6.18.2014

Sevenling (Life's Work, Strewn)

Penned pages torn,
discarded, scattered
across shorn lawn

where she wanders,
sighs lilac, shies
cracks for mother’s sake,

stuffs a fistful in her purse.

For Words Count With Mama Zen: Rule of Three
Posted by Marian at 10:13 AM
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16 comments:

  1. Sometimes there are no words... just sighs for the beauty we can never preserve.

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  3. I love 'stuffs a fistful in her purse' ...

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  4. I can see her, stuffing a fistful in her purse.

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  5. I can see her too being careful for her mom's sake to not step on any cracks during all of this. Also like stuffing them in her purse. People stuff things there for later use or eating. I think she is going to read some and try to figure out things about Mom she didn't know.
    Marian, I missed how the line, "sighs lilac" fits into this.
    I like the sevenling form and may read up on it for my own writing.
    ..

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    1. i like that you're reading a daughter and mother here, Jim. i was imagining someone walking through a suburban neighborhood, hence the lilacs and sidewalks... stuffing something (pages? lilacs?) in her purse. i've been surprised to come across vast strewn papers on lawns recently, a few times. like, what's going on? are people just throwing their novels to the wind? are the journals liberating themselves? or what?

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  6. the 'stuffs a fistful in her purse' really got me, great write.

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  7. Oh, wow, Marian. This is gorgeous.

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  8. were I to write on paper, I'd have a lot of torn pages, of late. instead, delete.... ~

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  9. Love that second stanza to pieces.

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  10. enjoyed your seveling, have to read more about this form to try writing

    much love...

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  11. light on words, yet heavy with feeling -

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  13. I love the idea of someone wandering around a place that is "torn" and somewhat broken, but she sees something that beautiful (or valuable to her) and she cares to preserve it. Hope in the middle of chaos...

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  14. There's an offering in those strewn bits of pages, a sacrifice of fallen meanings--as if the unknown writer could only destroy what had not reached their intended reader (god, a lover) in the way it was intended. I think of young Rilke wandering around Prague dressed all in black and carrying a lilac. Shreds of that paper, lilacs, even those cracks all go into this purse.

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