Poetry Friday: “Summer Frost”

Funny how poems sometimes materialize from the oddest of circumstances.

Four years ago, when my wife and I were discussing possible names for our baby – who was due right at the very end of 2009 – several winter-related names popped up. Since we didn’t know if we were having a boy or a girl, Noel/Noelle, Crystal, Winter, Merry, and Janvier (French for ‘January’) all came up as potentials, although we didn’t like any of those enough to put on our “list.”

One name, however, stuck: Frost. We thought Phoebe Frost would make a beautiful name for a girl born in the winter; plus, my wife noted that it would also be apropos because of my fondness for the poetry of Robert Frost.  (Being the comic book geek that I am, a reference to Emma Frost was a cool little bonus)

Fast forward to last month.  We were again discussing baby names, this time for our little bundle of joy who is due to arrive this August.  Since we had a little boy 3 1/2 years ago, we had to start from scratch with the boy names.  The girl names, however, were all fair game – but I questioned if the name Frost would work, considering the time of year he or she will be born.  One name my wife suggested was Summer Rose; when I countered with Summer Frost, a light went on. Those two words stuck in my head and refused to leave until I had written this.

“Summer Frost” may be off the baby name list, but it’s finally on paper…a poem four years in the making. For all of today’s Poetry Friday posts, please visit Ed DeCaria at Think Kid, Think!

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“Summer Frost”

It was unexpected.

Deep, deep in July, all humid, torrid,

when blushing Brandywines, full and ripe

hang heavy, tearing from their vines

and dragonflies dart between empty rows

where sunflowers were to grow (thank the crows),

a killing came. Subtle death

settled lightly, gently wresting life and breath

swiftly, softly, barely touching –

but with such a thing

as a summer frost

it should not

be unexpected.

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- © 2013, Matt Forrest Esenwine

Poetry Friday: “With her, at midnight”

For my final Poetry Friday post of the year, I’m sharing a fairly new poem that I completed just a few weeks ago.  I wrote this for my wife, Jen, and since it describes a muggy, summer evening, I thought it might help to melt some of the heavy, wet snow that fell in this part of the country yesterday.

This is a tanka, pretty much the only surviving form of waka, a term that once encompassed many forms of Japanese poetry.  You may notice that the first three lines are similar to a haiku, with their 5-7-5 syllabic structure; however, haikus are a relatively new form of poetry, having been developed in the 19th century (haikus were borne of the original hokku form, which dates to the 1600s, but waka forms go back to the 6th century).

By the way, this week I learned that the Japanese word haijin means a crippled person, or a haiku poet.  Figures.

So now that your history and vocab lessons are over, on to the poetry!  And be sure to stop by Carol’s Corner, where you’ll find the complete Poetry Friday round-up.

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With her, at midnight

Within the warm, thick
soup of night clouds and orchids,
breaths heavy as air
silence jealous crickets, stars
glisten our damp, moonlit skin.

- © 2012 Matt Forrest Esenwine

Poetry Friday: “Private Snowfall”

“Hold on, there, Matt!  It’s not even Labor Day yet, don’t rush the season!  What the @#*! are you doing?? ”

Sorry.

I’ve had winter on my mind quite a bit lately; not because I necessarily miss the freezing cold temperatures, tear-duct-stinging winds, or thick, heavy blizzards that cause everyone to either slow down to a snail’s pace while driving, or come to a complete stop when they drive off the road into an embankment.

On the contrary, I love summer.

I love the sun beating down on me, whether I’m working in the garden, cutting trees for firewood, or lying on the beach.  I love the fact that there is rarely a summer rain shower that is too cold to enjoy running around in.  And I love the fact that women’s clothing becomes more and more optional the higher the mercury rises.

(Hey, I’m just a guy.  Sue me.)

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.”

You know how people love to say that?  With me, I’ll take either or both.  It’s not that I dislike the other seasons – but spring is muddy, fall means wearing layers, and winter brings freezing cold temperatures, tear-duct-stinging winds, and– well, you know.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered I was in the process of writing a winter-themed poetry collection!

To those who don’t consider themselves writers, it would seem impossible to write something, yet not realize you’re writing it.  To those of us who do consider ourselves writers, it happens way too often.

In this particular case, I was simply looking for a common theme to some of the children’s poems I had already written, when I started realizing how many had to do with winter.  Usually, I write poems first, then figure out what to do with them afterward; but I wanted to create a more tightly-focused manuscript than the loose-knit ‘generic children’s poetry’ collection I had already assembled.  Once I counted a half-dozen winter-related pieces sitting there waiting to be published, I figured I’d best get cracking and give these poems some brothers and sisters.

Hot off the press…

Unlike the previous children’s poems I’ve posted here, which were written one, four, and 10 years ago, this is my most recent one.  And when I say ‘recent,’ I mean I just completed it a few days ago – it’s very new.

I like to say, the ‘think’ is still wet.

It’s a bit different from the other poems of mine you’ve read, but I like to write in all sorts of styles and forms; it not only keeps things interesting for the reader, but it keeps a writer sharp when they force themselves out of their comfort zone (more on that in a later blog post).

So far, I’m happy with the way things have been going, too – I think I’ve written a half-dozen new poems just in the past couple of months!

Apparently, summer loves me, too.

Private Snowfall

School bus,
morning
window seat,
peering through the frosted glass,

winter world
is waking up;
signs and streetlights quickly pass.

Index finger’s
steady nail
carves a path through icy land,

leaves behind
a scrawling trail,

little flurry
in my hand.

-Matt Forrest Esenwine