her hands are kites

· by · in poetry. ·


her hands are kites that battle over Kabul
the year before arrival of the talibans
the windows in her hair are dressed in gauze
and in her voice she hides the seed-pods
that never will be put in fertile soil

she tells a story of her golden child
to silent organs played on empty bottles
a symphony of makers mark & cutty sark
of a child with moonlit marbles in his eyes
her child that left before he stayed

but soon the withered branch will snap
and from the anthill in her flesh she’ll rise
to dance with clouds released in habit of defeat
and from her brow the marigold will bloom
to celebrate the absence of herself

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—
July 28, 2014

23 responses to “her hands are kites”

  2. wow…this is stunning. you had me completely entranced…such a poignant write and did I say wow? wow. the images you have created here with your words are insane and perfect. (still have not gotten the wows out of my system, so…) wow!

  3. whew…surreal around the edges in your description of her…quite evocative as well….the child in the second stanza jumped out at me…and her release there in the end…well writ piece bjorn

  6. Breathtaking. “and from her brow the marigold will bloom” got me googling away. It is the perfect flower. Your scholarly attention to the nuanced details in your poetry, Bjorn, are wonderful and elevating to your craft (and say a thing or two about you, to boot.) Yet another inspired piece. A pleasure to read.

  7. This is so powerful Bjorn —

    ‘in her voice she hides the seed-pods / that never will be put in fertile soil’ and ‘from her brow the marigold will bloom’ — just stunning work.

    I am so glad you’re back online again!

  9. This is so beautiful, Bjorn. You have created a character and imbued your narrative with magic realism. It puts me in mind of the works of Khaled Housseini.

  10. The great thing about poetry is that it opens so wide a door for readers to pass through, as if its intended meaning was less important than the invitation to dream it offers … So I think of pre-Taliban Kabul reading this, in an Afghanistan already devastated by decades of war, Soviet occupiers gone, new occupiers on the doorstep, fresh blood to spill. Except this singer and goddess is already bereft, is a bald moon plundered by too many meteors already, just a glowing orb of hammered dust. She continues on – as Afghanistan does – but mostly as a ghost-dance. Fine stuff.

  11. the textures of your words are always right on… do like how you used the body to allow your poem to speak… i think this is the first open link poem of yours i remember reading… great job

  12. Though all the people are affected by terrorism and war but as you bring out beautifully and sadly that women are more affected, So heartfelt sentiments.

  13. That war over there is pointless. I never understood how people could think it was okay to kill over a difference of opinion. Guess there is some kind of chemical imbalance or brainwashing thing going on. Isis is one of the most horrible groups of anarchists I have ever seen. Hopefully all this will end peacefully some day. It is horrible to be a parent and see your children die before you do. So the saying goes.

  14. One of your best, in my opinion Bjorn. The first stanza took my breath away–and the whole making a vivid world into which you usher us, show us its terrible beauty and enduring pain, before the light goes out and the flower blooms. Just excellent work.

  17. “the windows in her hair are dressed in gauze”

    My eyes are wide and my heart beating loudly… I can’t stop picturing those “windows”… the way in which they were made…

  22. I had the same feeling as Hannah of death and rebirth. I also got the feeling of watching helplessly in silence behind veils. Powerful write.

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