to the orange still green

Patty Seyburn

Your desire for metamorphosis heard and filed away:
frustration noted, conveyed to proper authorities,
soil and rain. Issues of identity never so labored as today.
I have heard, however, if you hail from Valencia,

it’s quite normal, and as far as dye—why would you
tamper with natural beauty in search of convention,
in this state where the prophetic sun anoints every
being? Merely for the sake of reinvention?

O Orange, unmatchable trochee except by slant,
by dint of the imagined word, yet to be created,
word of a new world, green world, seamless sphere
content, unbruised by fear of being belated,

join the trend—shed your insecurity, take pride
in the mother country, Brazil, in the year yours arrived
here, 1873, planted by the future scions of Riverside.
Rumor has one of three founding trees still alive,

and that could be your branch, your seed—while my kin
found themselves in Jersey City, trying their damndest
to speak American.

gem and senseless

The puddles in front of Speedy Muffler King request
your presence, as do I. Your province, they glisten
for you (as do I), archipelago of oil and water lowly
as a lentil, the manna of mourners—those wise in
matters of parable say, “the lentil has no mouth,”
so survivors should not open theirs to protest death. This
empty parking lot preens, as would any pacific
frill, mesa, alp or fjord, any lofty emblem called on
to connote you, stand in as your stunt double while

Patty Seyburn

2002

What I Disliked about the Pleistocene Era

The pastries were awfully dry.
An absence of hummingbirds—
of any humming, and birds’ lead
feathers made it difficult to fly.

Clouds had not yet learned
to clot, billow, represent. 
Stars unshot, anonymous.
Moon and sun indifferent.

No one owned a house, a pond,
a rock on which to rest your head.
No arc, no here then there. Beginning 
meant alive. The end was dead. 

Art still a ways away—no lyre.
Beauty, an accident. Needs
and wants bundled like twigs
then set on fire. Except, no fire.

Candles had no wicks. Fruit 
lacked seed.

Patty Seyburn

2009

Poems

to the orange still green

More by this poet

gem and senseless

What I Disliked about the Pleistocene Era

Poems

Page submenu block

to the orange still green

More by this poet

gem and senseless

What I Disliked about the Pleistocene Era

Newsletter Sign Up