Lattice of Sunlight Through the Trees

Finally school has ended for the summer and I am able to start indulging in writing poetry and reading some fantastic literature I wasn’t making time for. I recently bought the collected works of Wallace Stevens and have been utterly inspired to say the least. His poetry seems to concern the transformative power of the imagination. Stevens’ style is entirely exotic, whimsical and infused with a sense of light and Impressionism; his words are soft and quiet yet explanatory, much like the unfinished brushstrokes of the impressionist painters.
So far, my favorite poem has been “The Brave Man.” I can’t explain whether it was the power of repetition, or the dark and ominous imagery, that struck me the most; I found it both ironic and brilliant to relate such a shadowy vision to describe the sun. The sun becomes an entity that is able to exist victoriously, impervious to the hand at man, at least during the day time. The poem is beautifully written and implies a sense of dependability where the sun never tarries, and always continues on its path.

That Brave Man
Wallace Stevens

The sun, that brave man,
Comes through boughs that lie in wait,
That brave man.

Green and gloomy eyes
In the dark forms of the grass
Run away.

The good stars,
Pale helms and spiky spurs,
Run away.

Fears of my bed,
Fears of life and fears of death,
Run away.

That brave man comes up
From below and walks without meditation,
That brave man.

A Poem: "For Once"

Once again, another beautiful morning has lifted my spirits into an enlightened wakefulness. I cherish the wee hours of the morning when all is still asleep, waiting for the sun to break and spread its warmth, as I am in my most lucid state of mind. Everyday I am up at 4am and, although I could use a bit more sleep, love the quiet tranquility I am able to embrace in a welcomed solitude. It is just before daybreak where my mind is clear of any future intentions and I write in a naked bliss (not literally of course haha) and this morning was no exception.

For Once
By Jenna Reimer

Though many blossoms sway in the morning breeze,
Their roots remain as one.
I breathe this summer wind, transcendent;
Yet, I discern my mind and body beyond this picture.
It is this picture, hesitant and uncertain,
That has never given me a shining reflection
Of a lighted vision of deeper clarity.
Much like the surface of a well’s water,
Whose contents are hidden inside a murky grave,
I whither into my own intentions.
Looking outside the window
Discovering a nectar-like truth,
I begin to sway my own leaves and flowers.

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

Tree Figure
By Jenna Reimer

A tree stands before me;
Barren branches crowding a marked sky,
Unmoving below a merciless twilight,
I sit beneath it within the shadow of a wind.
Knowing all the things I have known once
Disappear into an entreated bliss.
The tree’s boughs grow into my breast,
Swallowing my limbs of fickle fury.
I was a tree among the woods.

An Unforgiving Fruit

A tree in Johannesburg
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.

A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.

Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.

Graves of Idle Night

We walked towards the lit corridor
in the streets alley.
The bricks are bare; leaves nestled in their crevices,
collected by a cold wind roaming
our salvaged remains.
It blew the door ajar;
the beat of an African drum
filled the hollow air and spoke to us.
“Come hither! Come hither!”
- It was a lovely day.

Two black boys were waiting.
Their eyes were a crimson red,
strokes of colored paint adorned their chests.
The boy’s drum- a concave dome.
But I am now but bleak for reasons
I cannot explain; we were defeated.
Eastern Cape Cycad trees danced strangely
in the heat of a hot sun.
And in the middle of the parade
the relic of a Roman Cathedral bleed mercilessly.

Deity of the Unrest

Rising smoke from ashes between my lips;
disappears into a naked sky.
Such warmth from an impervious beginning
relinquishes my soul to Hathor.
Protect me from those whose freedom
is held by unbreakable hands of hatred.
If you shall rise before the sun,
warn me of the imminent flood
that drowns those with false anticipations.
Although, I too am like the rest,
I am aware of such clever deceit.
Allow me to hide within the trees
that protects the ones who are not coned
by paintings of bare lands and unfinished portraits.
I have my things prepared
and I want to be ready.