Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

Posts tagged ‘Victoria Foth Sherry’

The Brief History of Daylight by Victoria Foth Sherry

Do not begin with that familiar span of timevf at chancery

when light falls everywhere at once: your hand,

the kitchen table, the street that carries you to work.

Light strives to be invisible: it mingles with the atmosphere,

turning oxygen into firmament, building contours of blue sky.

It disappears inside the prism of the ground, unearthing

yellow from banana, the magenta of the cup, the pavement’s grey,

yet leaves no trace upon the surface of a thousand things.

Made real by shadows, objects never do proclaim

the presence of the light; only matter

matters, nothing more.

To study light before it scatters, seek it in the hour

others give to sleep, before you steel yourself

against the boundaries firmed by day.

Go to a place that’s dim and still; listen

for the praise of rain and dew and all the winds,

of fire and heat of burning, blast of tempest,

hoarfrosts and snows, winter cold and summer heat,

every bodiless power that performs His word.

The windowpane, black and dead, comes alive

while you are not looking, quicker

than the pause between two breaths:

dark displaced by faintest silver, unannounced,

no edge that leads the eye to its beginning.

The brush of a transparent lip dissolves the glass

and slowly saturates the air in tones that deepen

without color—then for a single, blazing moment

light consumes the pale dimensions

of this insubstantial world.

~ Victoria Foth Sherry

Victoria Foth Sherry lives in Wichita and works for Eighth Day Books. She is an editor, book designer, songwriter, and a co-author of Wichita’s Lebanese Heritage.

108. To the Stars Through Difficulty: Victoria Foth Sherry

Everything spent now except the heat and the cicadas
sucking on the yellow rind of the horizon.  Light drains
from the pavement, downtown deserted but for this ritual gathering
by the tracks, every face turned skyward to the contours
of a cloud that builds and roils where nightly thunderheads once formed.
No one looks for rain anymore, only for this wheeling constellation
of a hundred thousand wings; we’re waiting for that sudden
breathless rush when the stars come pelting down to earth,
a storm of purple martins streaming past our heads
and washing through the branches of the restless trees till dawn.

— Victoria Foth Sherry

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