Six Pieces of My Soul
1
At the edge
of a scrapyard in Iowa
a girl in a blue dress sits
on a tire swing, legs flying.
A frog croaks hoarsely
from the well of her throat.
2
In a soft September sun
rows of stubby, dried-out
corn stalks turn
into a gold-leaf fresco
by Giotto: maidens
in ephemeral negligees.
3
The dusty road curls
like uncut ribbon.
In the distance
a red barn tilts, a hunched
old man still standing,
tipping his hat.
4
In the wetlands a heron
perches on one leg,
waiting for fish, staring
at its own reflection.
Geese land to gossip,
then travel on.
5
In a field, a buck
struts, antlers higher
than prairie. The doe
anxiously snorts
and stomps her hooves,
kicking up coneflowers.
6
Deep in the ground
of my garden, spuds put on
burkas, modest
and quiet, singing soft
prayers in the dark
mosques of the earth.
.
Mist a Nimbus Above the World
…………….“And in a painting I would like to say
…………….something consoling, like music.
…………….I would like to paint men and women
…………….with something of that eternal quality
…………….of which long ago the nimbus
…………….was the symbol and which we seek
…………….in the radiance itself, in the trembling
…………….of our color.” – Vincent van Gogh
Our garden is a fairytale this
morning, misty and faint
like a Japanese poem. You can almost
grasp the moment: Scattered last remnants
of moonlight on pond water.
The peonies painted in blotches of pink.
Roses daubed white and yellow.
Last night’s moon lingering, a wafer
under God’s tongue. You can almost
believe that the world wears
my grandmother’s knitted shawl
like I do at breakfast, in pause
before my day, seated at the table with my silent
husband who has nothing to say,
our orange cats fighting on the green circular
rug that revolves like a planet
on the wooden floor. The floorboards creak,
a language I don’t speak—
like the tongues of birds, toads, moss,
crickets, roses. Even the house
apparently wants to tell its story,
even though—like moon and sun and time—
it has no mouth. Earth reads our footsteps
and cradles all of our roots in her arms.
We should listen to earth,
to dirt underfoot, crawling with life,
growing our food. To the air
caressing us tenderly
everywhere. And to what mist
whispers into our ears
about taking a pause, being still
before we act. Erasing the things
that don’t matter, the specificity
of lines. When edges
are less defined, we are all
nearer each other.
.
BIO
Nynke Salverda Passi was born and raised in the Netherlands. Her work has been published in CALYX, Gulf Coast, Red River Review, Illya’s Honey, and The Anthology of New England Writers, among other journals. Her poetry has been anthologized in River of Earth and Sky and Pandemic Puzzle Pieces (Blue Light Press), Carrying the Branch (Glass Lyre Press), and Conestoga Zen (Conestoga Zen Press). Together with Rustin Larson and Christine Schrum, she is co-editor of the poetry anthology Leaves by Night, Flowers by Day. Her story “The Kiss” was nominated for a Pushcart prize and her essay “Oom Ealse and the Swan” was a finalist in the 2014 Editor’s Prize of The Missouri Review. She is director of the low-residency MFA in Creative Writing at M.I.U. and of The Soul Ajar, offering workshops that intersect writing, creativity, and healing.
