Dance Dance as the hive collapses...
Dance Dance as the hive collapses...
Dance, While the Hive Collapses
By Tiffany Higgins
Oh my, oh my, I lose myself
I study atlases and cirrus paths
in search of traces of it, of you
of that thing, of that song
I keep pressing my ear to the current
of air to hear ...
I hear it and it disappears
It was all I wanted to do in this life
to sense that phantom tap
on my nerves, to allow myself
to be hit by it, attacked, aroused
until, as if someone else, I arise
I dance my part in paradise
I read that bees who’ve drunk
can’t waggle to indicate
to others where the best
nectar is located
(you and I also long to map
for each other the sweetest
suck of sap)
Workers carry far less food
back to the waiting hive.
They wander, wobble
can’t bring their way
can’t bring it back
to the colony.
Some hives collapse
I desire to say that I, I
would do it differently
I would be the bee, bloomed
that still would shake out a wiggle
like the finger’s signature
on the iPad at checkout:
not quite you, but still identity
more like a wave than solid you
yet enough to signify:
There, there, in the far off field
spiked acanthus, trumpets of datura
in the abandoned lot
on the corner of International and High
the mystic assignation
the golden throat of light:
gorge, gorge, take
your fill, I would cry
before I too failed
and my bumbling body lay down to die
I’d dance my last dance
to rescue the hive
yes, I’d carry the amber whirrers
out alive ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Or not. Perhaps I too would succumb
to the corn syrup, chemical
piped into our supply.
(I, too, longing to find my
way to you,
would go off course.)
Alas. There is still melody,
rhythm, someone is streaking
out in air, droning
around the phonograph, which is the grooved
heart valve of the black vinyl
divine who is winding this universe.
Someone is dancing us.
Will it be you? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dance, dance, as the hive collapses
Dance, dance, while the colony disassembles
Dance the occasion
Dance the gorgeous design ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
inside the honey
of our lit up veins ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
between the stripes and streams
of these swift rays
Source: Poetry (January 2016)
Poems by Chris Andrews
On Earth as IT is
It takes the stronger-handed and the mixed-handed;
some people paralyzed by hesitation
and regret getting pushed aside by others
who have never been wrong in their lives. It akes
shiners-in-a-crisis and long-haul copers;
the briskly and in a way thoughtlessly kind
and those who find comfort in distributing
blame or inventing computer viruses.
It takes just a few real monsters and heroes
but plenty of people naturally enough
supposing that the obvious differences
are the causes of the less obvious ones,
to make this world anyway, such as it is,
with its actors in Mogadishu dubbing
Bollywood romances into Somali,
its prophets of serendipitous pause,
and its bush mechanics packing spinifex
into flat tires; our world with its warm ( not worm?) farm hands,
its war widowers filling watering cans
and its philosophers pondering whether
there is something it is like to be a ghost.
* IF I START
I remember telling my future self, Don't
start thinking these were the best days of your life
or I'll disown you. I remember the wind,
still chilly but not unkind, stripping blossom
out of a rain-laden plum tree and bustling
the back end of an apricot storm(? or stem) away
while citrus sidelight put a fugitive glow
into bricks and tiles and gave wet bitumen
sparkling relief. I was going to covet
records, some of which I squirm to remember.
On the cover of one I never owned were
four differrently-coloured balloons in a row
resting on a sky-filled mirror of wet sand.
I think I remember that musical spring
of pure possibilities. The problem is,
there's documentary evidence to prove
that my past self was morosely nostalgic
already: If I forget thee, Wollongong...
Why should I care about being disowned by him!
I don't. But may I bite my tongue if I start
running down the worthwhile thing I haven't done.