Poetry Writing Class
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees...
And poplars stand there still as death.
Why the poplar?
Not a cooling parasol against Southern sun,
each casts a shade scarce wider
than a column of the Big House.
Not a welcoming tree,
no branches spread to catch the knee
of climbing child.
It bears no blossoms,
not cherries, plums, or peaches,
only that fruit we all call strange.
A gibbet with leaves that shiver in heaven's eye
points its quaking finger at indifferent sky.
Pluck a leaf and taste its stem,
interesting but bitter.
The poplar's branches grow as close
as branches of my Southern family
the Black, the White
and all the shadings in between.
by Anna Sears
After 40 years of writing everything but poems, in the new millennium Anna Sears has been inspired by the Hospitality House Writing Group to return to her first love, poetry. She is now poetry editor of Caveat Lector magazine.
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415 749 2100