Divining Rod
Old school, he eschews
the modern metal versions
for slender sticks of willow or hazel,
not just any old found wood,
the branch has to speak to him,
prove it retains root memory,
a longing for that
from which it has been severed.
In this way, he and the rod are alike.
Sundays, seeing Miss Green in her finery,
her slender neck and ankle bones exposed,
he feels the sap begin to flow,
move through him like a coin
he’d once seen a magician pass
through a silk handkerchief.
Her voice is a shallow running creek,
soft, yet even her whispered hello
is a powerful cataract to his senses,
rounding his gruff, hard edges
and hammering him to the point
words vacate his brain,
forcing him to reach
for a Dixie Cup to hide behind.
The faint pulse of hidden water,
this he understands.
It’s the strong current
that flows unimpeded
when seeing Miss Green
that has left him adrift in his own skin,
as if his true heart’s mind
were a mystery, beyond divining.
12 thoughts on "Divining Rod"
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Bill, this is an incredible piece.
“her slender neck and ankle bones exposed,/
he feels the sap begin to flow,”
Is so clean.
The character voice is spot perfect.
Another Brymer.
A work of art.
Wow! The character and the voice are crisp here, Bill. I especially like this:
“Her voice is a shallow running creek,
soft, yet even her whispered hello
is a powerful cataract to his senses,
rounding his gruff, hard edges
and hammering him to the point
words vacate his brain,”
Your writing this month has been and continues to be phenomenal. I am in awe!
what an evocative poem probing his memory of Miss Green. don’t think I’ve seen a divining rod since John Hawkes’ The Beetle Leg
I’ve always been fascinated by diviners and animal-whisperers. Don’t know if it’s all hooey, but it’s nice to believe that kind of magic exists.
My grandfather was a diviner. He’d witch with a flask of whiskey in his back pocket. He was an ace.
Sounds like a poem you need to write!
adrift in his own skin!
I love this! I love how you blend the two characters. A favorite poem from this month.
The diviner in our neighborhood
was a preacher
magistrate
(& some say womanizer).
This poem is my kind of story.
Thanks, Jim. Your diviner sounds quite the character.
Wonderful, Bill!
Sometimes a divining rod is just divining rod. Sometimes it ain’t. 😏
Bill – You will need a dowser to find water because you are on fire this month! We hired a dowser to witch water when we moved to the country. City folk, we thought it all hooey- the ritual of finding the right branch, the walking the land, the whole process, but dang he found water. The poem comes full circle so nicely.
forcing him to reach
for a Dixie Cup to hide behind. — hilarious!