seed wisdom
Imperfect seeds also germinate,
in a more difficult way; painful stem grows
of the tormented plant
What will this spring concoction be?
that the drug that saves it
has turned into glycine – creamy smell
bittersweet sugar, citrus undertones
in disguised purple.
Wild birds recite verses in the air
Has the song of the mother bird healed her?
Am I really here, watching
the miracle of my fertile land
or is it my mind that imitates
to the dying man who escapes from the barren land
and look for the seed to save the world?
We are the witch poets, the ones with the mark on the face
my trade is the botany of the imperfect
that mutates to the perfect, to see the beauty in the
“not graceful” is to live many lives,
give wisdom to the marrow
spinal cord of the brain
in the seed of the plant.
The noose around the neck is the plant
tied to the cross, slowly
stop breathing and die
And what is life for?
if we don’t manage to be captivated
with all the trees in the world?
the intelligence and wisdom of flowers
is assimilated to the cunning of orphaned children
nameless beautiful bastards,
no handkerchief on the lapel,
they feed on fresh drops;
Those left by loving widows
in the tomb of the dancing moon.
the dead dance
imperfect seeds also flourish,
they love dew in rain
of scarlet evenings
in the smell of smoke, fire and mapacho tobacco.
At night …
the frost settles on the petal of her lip;
nice to freeze like this, being kissed
because of the cold that rests in the water garden.
I caress each stem without prejudice to its appearance
for me, the witch plant is so beautiful
like the scent of the holy white rose.
The twisted and mutilated lemon tree
has taken refuge in the grape vine
red wine lemon
Beneath the cement has grown
blooming dandelion and sphere
healing herb for the healer and sage.
Rescuing damaged seeds is the art
of the reasonable
We are the ancient poets, the ones with the mark on the face
Here I bring roots to decorate your hair.
I resurface in my garden
The wind blows hard, breaks promises.
Catastrophic hiss, fractures everything.
My hand no longer touches your figure;
broken marble.
underwater love nest
stifled desire.
You interrupted my spring
cold storm; wet paper,
You have erased all my love poems.
What do you keep in those pockets
how much do you protect?
the wind asked me
(the burden of my corpse)
Suffering for love deforms my face
-I disappear-.
I neglect my garden, I leave it without dew,
I turn to stone
and I cry my gloomy sadness.
Decay,
I look in the rocks
the calm of my weight.
I’m sorry for you ungrateful root,
when I suffer, I become bad.
I take shelter in the dead trunk,
I am dry firewood
I have no foolish claim
to be perfect for you.
Today I have seen butterfly lilies bloom,
-They talk about rebirth-
There is no end of the world, if the birds
at night they recite poems.
I resurface in my garden, I breathe, I smile.
My flowers, my steps where I recover my voice,
my singing
My silent cat and devoted friend.
imperfect seeds,
we also bloom at dawn.
What do you keep in those pockets
how much do you protect?
the wind asked me.
written by ©Victoria Morrison
Victoria Morrison, Chile 1977, Social worker, poetry and short story writer. Current and active member of SECH (Chilean Writers Society) P.E.N Chile (Poets, essayists and novelists) Published books: A room in hell (2016) Ediciones La Horca Evicted poems (2017) Editorial Ovejas Negras Pupilas de Loco (2020) Rumbos Editores (Her writings are characterized by evoking psychological themes. A lover of nature, the author explains that in each word there is healing; if we assimilate that word to the roots of each plant, just as there are imperfect seeds, there are also humans imperfect; are not the goods called “crooked trees” those that, without water, shade, or fertile soil, continue to breathe on the earth. If the fragile plant resists the cold, the weather, the human flesh sheltered in wool and scarf I should be grateful and silent, listen in silence, the frozen and brave song of the frosty hour
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Pupilas De Loco
@victoria_morrison_
Mitchell Pluto 