India

The Poetry of Emily Isaacson
 

Dried Burgundy Flowers

 

One love, true sentiment

the reed, dampened,

and a dolce affair

though a ship direct our course

over grey and ire.

 

The bridge of time, our port

and exploring, we wind our hearts

to one life.

 

Singing, I shall find one note

as the sail hums.

 

Emily Isaacson 

Baby's Breath Wreath

 

The delicate moment when a new-born’s cry

crossed the threshold, a minuet:

I was seated, and my purpose sealed,

with joy I marry and am brought near.

 

The circular purpose of a world

and the stormy islands, unchartered;

a mariner’s compass 

to guide our eyes. 

 

Emily Isaacson

Glass Teapot

 

My teapot,

countless pouring and clear diadem,

with invisible planets

of color

in glass solar systems:

 

They cross overhead, their haloes,

true sons.

 

And the passengers sit

at the backgammon table,

in shaded summer linen,

a game with numerous endings,

silhouetting the realm of chance

and fate;

the sailors, resonant, lithe. 

 

Emily Isaacson