(for Hilary)

Ivy has taken over our lives;
A new house and an overworld of green;
Clinging—like thick, grubby, bark-skinned cobwebs—
To old pipes, walls, and the ‘rag-and-bone shop’
Of someone else’s dead life.  It seems sly;
Entangling itself throughout the rotten,
Wooden skeleton of a large glasshouse;
It covers an old mangle heavily—
Like a bamboo-woven mat.  The dead, brown
Tentacles are brittle as baby bones:
They biscuit-snap.  Above, white flowers snow
And a dirty shower of big, green moths.
The limbs of disorder?  Or nature
Left to ooze its joy?  It grasps the high walls
Like provocative art: a seaman’s rope
Snaking on the dry surface of cement.
It has branches as thick as a man’s wrist;
I hack, with an axe, into this jungle
Of garden shame; I saw its brown tendrils,
Revealing a gaping, tattered whiteness.
I am its sweating slave; its dust peppers
My salted face.  My slicing and tugging
Release the ruined, rusty riches
Captured under its green revolution.
But someone else must have loved it; needed
This waterless aquarium of weeds.




Copyright © Adel Gorgy 2011 Photograph Olives and Ivy  after Van Gogh (The Olive Garden)
 for Peter Thabit Jones (Garden of Ivy)
Cross-Cultural Communications Art & Poetry Series Broadsides # 18
Adel Gorgy  Contemporary Photography
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Abstracting Abstraction

And I think of lonely Edward Thomas,
Liking tall nettles but disliking man.
It hangs, unruly, above my smallness:
Like frayed, green curtains and arthritic sticks.
The rough invasion is now retreating.
Now the garden is free of oppression
(Though I feel no pride in my ruthlessness);
Just a bunch of green moths clutch a bald wall.
Stretching up, I pick off the bold parasites;
For they say it comes back with a vengeance.

Peter Thabit Jones