Lavina Blossom

I had at first thought to write this poem in accentual-syllabic lines, specifically in blank verse (iambic pentameter; no rhyme scheme), but even that less formal form eluded me. The poem finally settled into decasyllabic lines (10 syllable), with occasional sound echoes that satisfy my ear.  Although the principle of syllabic verse is said  to operate best in less accented languages, such as French, Spanish, and Japanese (haiku, or instance), a number of writers in English have experimented in the form, among them, Marriane Moore, W.H. Auden, and Dylan Thomas. So I feel I'm in good company.






I have plans for all of it, every chip
of plastic and glass I took from the street.
Every penny. And I picked up many
scored from grinding between asphalt and tires.
Plus dimes, nickels, quarters, a dollar bill.
Scraps of broken jewelry for children,
precious stone and metal simulations.
Hair ties, ribbon from deflated balloons.
Doll parts, washers, bolts, nuts, screw, wire, nails,
flyers and tracts chewed to fine lace by snails.

From shattered beer bottles and flattened caps,
from a dry sea bed of sun-bakes flotsam
that the trash-bins did not catch, or trash-men
carry off, I re-collect her. A torn
bit of red foil candy wrapper becomes
the edge of full becoming lips. A blue
hanger in the midst of many other
blues mirrors her wide jutting hips. Lady
of the Wayside. Roll the French “r” of her
true name. It is mellifluous: Debris.



Lavina Blossom received her MFA in Poetry from the University of California, Irvine. Her poems have appeared in The Literary Review, California Quarterly, Kansas Quarterly, The Paris Review, and other publications.  She is currently working on a novel.