Tuesday poem: Ursa major

August 8, 2017

Ursa major

Some old ones blow up
and some contract into themselves.
Crab nebula or hermit crab
seems to be the question.
Surely it’s better to reach out,
even with pincers, than to ban light’s
customary caress, its kissing blush of face?
I want to be the crabby old bear,
stained with purple,
snatching berries like song.
Bulking up for my Winter’s
last diminuendo.

PS Cottier


A middle-aged poem about age, first published in 2011 in The Mozzie, edited by Ron Heard in Queensland.

The asparagus fields of Peru are visible from space

Little green rockets
counting down pushing up
tips pierce the moon

Ballistic veggies
spears thrown up to satelleyes
sparrowgrass has landed

Green fingers reaching out
Romero horror film
Night of the single crop

P.S. Cottier

The Victorians sometimes referred to asparagus as sparrowgrass:
“‘It’s a stew of tripe,’ said the landlord smacking his lips, ‘and cow-heel,’ smacking them again, ‘and bacon,’ smacking them once more, ‘and steak,’ smacking them for the fourth time, ‘and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together in one delicious gravy.'”

(Dickens The Old Curiosity Shop Chapter 18)

My brain being what it is, I now picture thousands of guinea pigs lost in the vast fields of asparagus…pretty fat guinea pigs.

Whether there is any other poetry of an eco-poetic slant at Tuesday Poem this week, I know not. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.

photo by Muffet (cc licence attribution generic 2.0 Wikimedia Commons)