Sophie Doulut, “Chuckin’ Corn”

Here I am –

Sitting on a rocking chair

Out there on the front porch

Of a Southern home

Wrenching off the green leaves out

And then the long bristling hair

Of an ear of corn

It had looked like

A precious thing wrapped

In some Egyptian handwritten papyrus rolls

Maybe some oval yellow Rosetta stone

That could not be deciphered in the open

By anybody but myself – for once.

When plucking the leaves out,

The ear looked like

Some disheveled creature

With tousled straight hair

As if somehow the Divine had dwelt

Within the plant and had animated it,

Instilling Life and Breath into it.

On the porch, there I was

Listening to what the ear of corn

Had to reveal

An pouring my story

Into it,

And like a dulcimer playing

In front of me,

The ear had me listen

To the past of America.

I could hear Native American drums

Along with Aztecan trumpets

Echoing those of the Mariachis

Playing on barges

Sailing on a Mexican lake…

I went that far –

Never leaving the rocking-chair

Or the front porch in Candia Lane,

North Carolina –

And I knew then that souls

Could travel faster than minds,

Disclosing hidden worlds

That could not be shuffled in

By anybody – if they didn’t press

Their own ears to the ones

Nature makes of corn…

                                                                 Sophie Doulut, Les Arcanes de l’Esprit, 1997-2009

1 réponse

  1. Nicole L-Forster dit :

    Lovely poem, well written and imaginative

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