Monday, May 3, 2010



Blackberry bushes
scrape one side of the tracks,

the train stopped in the woods
by the semaphore’s arm.
My father jumps out.

In his cupped hands he brings me
blackberries warm from the sun.
He pours the glistening

berries into my hands.
The sweetest, the blackest
he brings me

forever from nameless woods.
I am eating the black sun.
Father goes to pick more,

and I know he’ll be left
behind –
a flash of his shirt

in thorn-studded brambles,
at the window my mute
screaming mouth.

But the train
blows a whistle for the lost.
He jumps back onboard,

and like a slow waltz,
rocking side to side,
in blackberry woods

we begin to keep time,
lips stained with departing purple.

~ Oriana 
I know there are many blackberry poems. I hope to be forgiven -- this one is in memory of my father, Leszek. Below is a picture of him at 14, in his school uniform.

No comments:

Post a Comment