WINTER
WINTER
EMILY ISAACSON
EMILY ISAACSON
Found Poetry
Found poetry is poetry that is constructed from an outside source or text, including literature, magazine or journal articles, novels, or art. The source is usually innocuous.
Emily Isaacson has utilized this literature form in her collection THE FLEUR-DE-LIS in one or two sections only.
Sample: Poems created from original text of magazine article: "Where The Wildings Are." by Daniel Butler.
Classic
Foliage and the violet orchards
flowered and picked,
the folded and faded variety:
preserving traditions
with old jam.
Fields of fruit,
from Kent to Cambridge, vigor—
a strawberry flavor, the most
English of all.
Linen Press
The pots, upside down
and brown
holding earth, as we
dry the moss and lichen,
a decorative accent.
The hot water
on the pot-bellied stove,
a twenty-minute endeavor:
the basins, for snow-pure
sheets, socks, and scarves
hanging in the breeze.
Inglenook
Castlehaven,
an engraved charcoal flight,
the ancient Romans
on the isle of wings:
the pigeonholes, laced
antique boots, leather-brown,
and monarchs converging
on wild asparagus.
The tiny white flowers
in a mother’s apron:
freesia an ointment
from the 17th century onwards,
chimneys, a soot-tainted
handkerchief, and
a wreath over the door knocker.
Provencale
Pots and pans
in a quiet space,
small head, with one
moment’s wish;
cloth towels to wipe away
smears, and a wild goose lake
where the blue stains.
Hand mirrors,
silver, ivory, and ebony,
with chaste and embossed
flowers: wreaths, ribbons, and bows;
in the hedge, small wildings
heckling the wrens.
The Gardener
The water can,
silver-blue and rain
falling into hay barrels;
the clouds, a thick lining
against Portugal’s clavier.
An indent per daffodil,
and weather-worn ladder
for the garden shed,
white-washed
under a tangle.
Blackbirds, blossoms,
redwings, and fieldfares
join in after the frost.
Gloucestershire
Apples, no two alike,
from old cores,
grown among the verges.
Hidden deep in the woodland,
its seeds a jumble
for foxes, pies, and cider,
the crab apple dons its apron.
From pollen to blossom,
field to field:
woodpeckers, nuthatches,
and thrush nesting mistletoe
in the old apple wood.
Alabaster
Pondering through the boughs,
barrier to wind or stock,
the wildings
in the Welsh uplands,
pink with blossoms:
weighted down with
small green spheres,
the autumn, a hidden tryst
with light:
ripening a tune.
One apple for three thorns,
pips, as hedgerow root stock,
and graft a twig
from morn to moon.
Emily Isaacson
Quote
Quote
What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE
Emily Quote
I found meaning in
the little things,
and recorded
the symphonies of nature.
Somehow the movement
of the shadows and lights
over the earth,
played like a chord
upon the harp,
its stringed note lingering
into the dust of mankind.
--Emily Isaacson
