Carol A. Stephen

This post is also related to two of Lewis Oakwood’s poems on his site, visit to a flea market and a storeroom, http://thecuttingpoets.wordpress.com/ Please give them a read as well. I am working with Lewis on perhaps reviving some of those orphan lines we all seem to accumulate.

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4 thoughts on “Carol A. Stephen

  1. Hi Carol, while setting up a new page on my blog I accidently deleted (and lost) some of the two parters/ uncorked poems, included among the deleted was your first attempt. I would be most grateful if you could please resend the piece to me so that it may be included on the new page ‘Friends Of Uncorked’. Thank you, Lewis :)

  2. LINE EXCAVATIONS, ARCHAEOLOGIES

    I.

    It’s not about the tremble on your tongue
    It’s in the taste of mountains
    the colour of wind
    the bitter voice of herbs
    the texture of air
    the tremor of red stones

    II.

    Imagine a mountain taste: salt, bitter, earth taste
    a hint of old sock and worm perhaps mold
    the metallic iron nuances of fool’s gold, mint, almond
    a trickle of fresh melt and shell

    Imagine. What is the colour of wind? It pulls blue from the air
    folds it into white filtered through smog and rain
    from the west it shatters into grey, white from the south and north
    marine blue moving west from the east coast of Greenland and
    when it rises upward fades into black and stars

    Imagine you hear the bitter voice of herbs. Is it a low mutter gutteral
    or a high clear C-note above sound? Does it resonate?
    A bounce-back beat a staccato stack of jazz riff searching for a melody
    or a thrum drum hum just north of subsound— does it incline, lean, a little hot
    and mean, toward a little subterranean Mediterranean Latin lilt tilt?

    imagine the texture of air, a lightweight seersucker suit, a mixed brew of scent
    and twinge, eau of meadow and l’air du city smoke, a soupçon of cloud, sieved
    through a fine mist of rain, snow and fresh with fragrance of sun.

    I’ve seen the tremor of red stones.
    How they tremble at the clap of thunder,
    huddle together under harsh storm. Each shiver
    a glimpse of glint on rounded shoulder, lined
    with spidery veins of silver and gold granite,
    but though they tremble they will not break,
    and they will never let you see their heart.

    Carol A. Stephen
    May 8, 2014

    • Hi Carol, thank you so much for reposting the piece, I have now included it with your other work (Grizzly Shark Yak Avalanche) :)

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