Ion Corcose has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2020 Poetry Contest
When I first gazed upon the world,
eyes like a dragonfly over a field of grass,
I did not see lightning or crows,
or a camel stubborn on its knees.
I did not see a man pluck hair from a rabbit,
rub chilli into the eye of a cow,
burn a monkey with a blowtorch;
telling the truth came later.
I remember learning that the word for truth in Greek,
aletheia, means to reveal the forgotten.
Looking inside, I found Rumi
eating a bowl of yoghurt with honey,
a fishing boat with a crate of ginger,
a slice of homemade orange cake.
We are not who we are; always other.
Eyes seek out islands in the sea;
Rhodes, Lesvos, Kos,
the distance, a shroud; but they are there,
just like the Parthenon, spring
and a snake shedding its skin.
Tree nymphs cannot be seen,
except by children, and wild dogs.
A lemon falls off a tree,
rots to green until it crumbles into itself.
A white egret stands still,
elegant, as it has been for thirty million years;
it waits to snare a fish,
its cloak as soft as a shaded moon.
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