Watercolors (Day 390)

Where the edges

are not, there now

twist and turn, into cavernous

echoing chambers, bleeding

rivulets of umber diverging into

creases that vein the vast,

opaline expanse of 

love’s cold, hard floor,

over which we slipped and

ran, laughing until we cried, our

seawater tears blooming like watercolors.

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: JMW Turner, Lyme Regis, Dorsetshire, England (ca. 1834), 
watercolor, Cinninnati Art Museum (via Wikimedia)

Ice Music (Day 383)

come out   into 

the dearest sliver 

                       of night   

intuit  improvise  take 

    turns warming 

thin sensitive fingers   tickling 

the pitiless ice   the brush
  of its steely surface 
       like the merest kiss 

            of arctic fur  

breaking against 

your bare neck   curved 

strings of errors composing 

instrumental openings 

into delicate 

     musical lakes 
resonating   a still 

  slight sound

in a softer space  

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Photo: Emile Holba

Inspired by this article about Norway’s Ice Music Festival

Sole Transformation (Day 360)

no longer is this 

our sole transformation

this agonizing feint 

so special so beautiful 

trusting in the lingering 

bands of shadows 

from stands of tulip trees

a story that may not be 

objectified 

best left in its natural state 

without humor 

or self-deprecation 

the vibrant location 

never required 

a single elaboration

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: Vincent van Gogh, Farmhouse in Provence, 1888, 

oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC

The Weekend Shows (Day 347)

cold toes in wool socks feet

sweating inside slippers that 

clearly aren’t doing their job   

comforting weight of the cat 

spread across my lap from 

knee to thigh folded and 

draped from side to side like 

a sun-warmed blanket 

knitting needles making a trim 

clicking sound when the tips 

graze and nubbly yarn turning

into fabric as it slips through 

my fingers   spicy floral tea 

growing lukewarm in a pottery 

mug painted by a mystery artist 

in an intricate pattern of blue 

flowers and green leaves that 

remind me the world will not

always remain frigid and gray

conversation on the radio in calm 

public-broadcasting voices so 

familiar they are almost like friends

—the ones I saw every day when 

I lived and worked in a city I loved—

though since That Man took office 

I’ve had to bar even NPR from 

my house during the work-week

because they never stop talking 

about him for an instant from 

Monday to Friday dwelling on 

the most bitter upsetting news

and in that way they aren’t really 

like my old friends at all

(c) 2018, by Hannah Six

Image: From Radio World magazine, 1923

via Wikimedia Commons

A story worth telling (Day 346)

This woman is reading 

aloud 

to her children,

after working a 10-hour day.

This woman is a warrior.

She is on a mission of

wisdom, knowing deep in her 

battered and dazzling soul,

that there’s no better way 

to teach them 

about the world, about

how to stand up and

how speak out, 

how to engage 

how to help and

how to fight for 

what they know 

is right, and 

how to know 

what is right. 

“Imagine,” she says to them, 

without saying the words.

“Imagine how all of our 

voices coming together 

could lift us up, and 

break us out. Now 

that will be a story

worth telling.”

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: “In the end...” by Doug Youvan

Making art (Day 342)

Making lingering art

a public dream 

of dark bars and 

coffeeshops

sleeping ghosts and 

mystical gifts. 

The fine raw 

humming energy 

arising from 

the work itself 

rewarding 

the fatal selfishness 

of creating  

of giving  

and the unexpectedly 

selfless grace 

of taking 

time and energy 

to receive 

the finished work. 

Without the one

the other would fail.

Without the other

the one would 

never have been.  

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Pot Pourri, 1897 (oil on canvas) 

by Herbert James Draper; private collection

via Wikimedia Commons

Happy Endings (Day 244)

tragic fiction, happy endings:

flying away 

to some extended-stay hotel 

in some guy’s magic land   

where partly sunny ruins the day

the world is cruel business, see? 

sometimes this strikes me funny 

like laughing at a funeral, death 

do us part

happy few go on forever as 

they start, those poor nine-lives cats 

and breeding bunnies, whose tales 

aren't much worth 

    writing about

        what I don't want to be 

            interested in what I think 

I'm trying to get at, to know, is the truth: 

life just feels more real when 

you drink your coffee from a broken cup, 

when dawn wakes up 

to greet you—you—

with the cold dew on your toes

(c) by Hannah Six

Image: aingnamma 

How the Poem Gets In (Day 200)

First, the soft sound 

of stocking-footed steps, 

barely a breath on 

the concrete. A whisper, 

a slight change in the quality 

of light raining down 

through windows opened 

wide to capture even 

the shyest rays of sunlight. 

Like a gentle nudge—no, less—

a mellow pressing against 

my side, friendly as 

the family dog, but unknown, 

unfamiliar until now. 

Ears trained on the non-silence, 

straining to hear vague rustlings, 

I look up from my knitting,

blink as if shaken awake from 

a long, dreaming doze, alert 

to the stirred air, the charged 

atmosphere, and welcome my new 

guests, inviting them to sit 

on my velvet sofa, offering 

a fresh pot of tea. Sustenance, 

because the day is young, 

and we have work to do.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Simon Q

A Current Stirs (Day 181)

Sinuous eels flutter.

A current stirs, 

their solemn eyes peer.

Slim darting fish meld 

like sequins with sunlight, 

flashing through 

the dimpled swells.

Bemused, they swarm 

—angels swooping

toward vengeance, 

astonishing and fast.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: Detail of painting by Raphael (public domain)

Artifacts (Day 161)

 

They keep 

adding up,

the moments, and 

the words to 

describe them, 

and I carry them, 

like winter,

like my sister’s piggybank,

like what happened 

that night

at 42nd and Baltimore.

I carry them, 

tucked deep inside 

my pocket, until I find 

someplace warm and safe 

and comfortable 

where I can take 

them out to examine,

one by one, holding each 

up to the light, 

turning it,

like a mysterious artifact,

this way

and that.

(c) 2017, By Hannah Six

Photo: Marrakesch, In den Souks, by Giggel

Grand Lady (Day 125)

 

Abandoned House, Hagerstown MD

Never a grand lady,

Like those northern upstarts. 

You were even, perhaps, 

A bit careworn, compared 

With your neighbors, whose 

Fresh red confidence eclipsed 

Your plain-Jane simplicity. 

Or was your appearance 

Purposely misleading? 

You might have jealously 

Guarded the golden joy pulsing 

In your veins, familiar warmth 

Radiating comfortably 

To the scrolled tip of each 

finely-turned bone. Glimpses

Of your elegant strength,

Your faultless honesty, 

Your unwavering generosity 

—Visible only to those who 

Knew you, or who thought to look 

Beyond the customary trimmings—

Gifts you bestowed intimately,

Their secrecy lending them 

A covetable air of pricelessness.



(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Unstoppable (Day 116)

Cicada husks 

obscured the walkway 

an exoskeletal patina 

pecan-dark and crunchy 

Howling she stomped out 

the pointless icons 

unstoppable as 

a howling December flood 

Behind mullioned windows 

the family's lesser matron 

pausing in the middle of her tea 

pronounced:

Hoarding words in a notebook 

is not the same as preparing 

for an inevitable future

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

How We Talk Now (Day 115)

(Travel Journal Page, Laura Mandelbaum)

How we talk now 

text now thoughts through 

hands thumbs screen 

like pen on paper 

no midnight scent of ink

or glide of gold nib soft 

as caramel on a slick  

old-fashioned journal page

we can write in bed 

or on the train or in the car or 

simply speak 

our stories lives letters

poetry on the page 

in our own voices 

different voices careless 

boisterous silly strong   

tongue fingers thumbs 

an accent different from 

the gentle rolling 

hybrid print and cursive

that I used to write 

my father's mother like 

notes dashed off to mine 

now love dispatched 

post haste with 

a few taps of my thumbs

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Private Ballet (Day 92)

Streaming rivers of silk,

We performed a private ballet,

Seeing ourselves on stage, 

Inhabiting our own glory.

Hands clasped, toes turned out,

We bowed to wild applause,

Lingering in the dream,

Reluctant to give up the story.

(c) by Hannah Six




*Photo: Tatiana Riabouchinska, one of the leading ballerinas of the 1930's, darns a ballet slipper (via Wikimedia Commons)

The Places He Does Not Know (Day 57)

The places 

he does not know 

      are no less real for 

his incomprehension, 

but this will 

      not always be 

so, and I long 

      for that day 

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six