Without darkness, nothing comes to birth, As without light, nothing flowers.
May Sarton
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The Q: How do we recover treasure from the deepest places, the bathys?
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The bathys holds what we’ve buried too deep— loss, love, and memory’s wreckage. Descend, unafraid, and return with radiant fragments only an artist can breathe back to life.
Tina Marie Ferguson
“Still” by Anon
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Pitch swan,
know-it-all crow,
oil-spill signify––
black in the bottom grass,
large and lanky,
long-tailed strut of tongue
my murky grackle
with your chunky beak––
the sun shatters your feathers
bronze and blue––
ripples
the opalescent Mediterranean.
The darker my heart
the more dash and trace.
Can you see
my rush
my streak and hue?
“Grackle Poem” by Lois Harrod
“The Poet” by Lopamudra Banerjee
Once, my love, you had colored me in wild hues, the red of my heart,
The blue of my veins, the green of my fertile womb. Have you ever known how I, too, have craved to lick, suck away the red, crisp edges of your heart?
“Once, After a Torrent: Prose-Poem” by Lopamudra Banerjee
“to be seen” by Tonya Russell
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The body of a glacier is deceptive.
Like a mood ring, it changes color with the light and seasons. Dulling in the summer, crisping to white in the new snowfall after the cleansing autumn downpours. In winter, cloudless skies highlight its grades of blue, gray skies reflect dirt in the ribbons of moraine.
At a distance, it appears stable, serene even. Impenetrable. It also looks more riverine, a hundred miles of downward flowing ice. Up close, the body is porous, fragile, and more difficult to read. Qualities I recognize in myself.
“Witness” by Sarah Aronson
