Little Orange Hydrangea

This poem was the result of an exercise I completed with students.  I brought them to a remarkably beautiful part of our campus, asked them to close their eyes for twenty minutes while I walked them through a meditation, and then asked them to open their eyes and make observations about the colors, the visuals, and the sensations around them.    They then wrote three to four full-sentence observations, which they had to cut apart and piece together as snippets of succint, sensory verse.  I did the same, and this was the result:

“little orange hydrangea”

damp stones underfoot glistening with rain
(can you see your reflection
your dark hair like a smeared
wind-swept stain; I just see the
lone orange hydrangea)
lost little flower
alive, single
burst of flame
and
the same the same the same
(always the same)
and that freedom
screams and begs, and let me
out
let me

out

you, the lone orange hydrangea
burns
lost little flicker of flame
extinguished
underneath the
rain
and I think (how can you not think)
about the dark haired girl
the flame-eyed girl
little orange hydrangea
loves botany and the smell of rain
loves strongly, lives vastly,
hopes to die rapidly, artistically, a willing Black Dahlia
smoke curls out of her nose and it’s raining
she’s that
lone little hydrangea
lost little flower
and she peels off every one of her petals
spits on fire
drives too fast, lives too fast
and when she’s no longer breathing
and still and gray and yellow-haired
put together by hands in suits to look
like she did when her heart still beat
(tha-thum-tha-thum the drum of life)
she’s a still-life
like a bowl of oranges and shining
bottle of olive-oil
(this isn’t her she’s a
little orange hydrangea
and we
we wish we could choose to lose our petals
and live alone
and wild
in the rain)

 

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3 thoughts on “Little Orange Hydrangea

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