"Where is Your Flower?"

Rely on Rumi, 13th century Persian poet, for our times: 

 

Man, man, man,

what kind of lightning are you, setting farms on fire? 

What kind of cloud are you, raining down stones?

 

What kind of hunter?

Caught in your own trap—

a thief stealing from your own house.

You’re sixty years old, you’re seventy years old, 

and you’re still uncooked?

Still won’t let Love’s flames near, 

won’t let them burn you up?

Enthralled by stuff and status, 

the crown, the turban, the king’s beard—

thorns pricking your hands,

but where is your flower?

 

Gazing in the mirror, 

you tilt your hat like a crescent moon—

but where is your light?

Poem translated by Haleh Liza Gafori and kindly shared by Pádraig Ó Tuama. 

A Portable Identity... Anew

This may not be a book of poetry, but it is the first book in my repertoire, newly revised with the addition of a third co-author. If you are an accompanying spouse (or you know someone who is), this is the handbook to have. And, this time around, while redoing some writing, a new poem was born. That poem, "121 Heatherdown Lane," is included in Inheritance of Flowers. Endeavors do cross-pollinate! 

A Portable Identity, released January 5 this year, is ready for you. For a few months, some bonuses are offered from our lead page (a-portable-identity lead page). Soon, soon, one of these bonuses will be a reading of the poem that gives voice to leaving my home country. 

Warm wishes,

Charise

Wintering

 

two deer rest on ice

fur warming frigid site/sight

what fresh peace is this?

~CMH 

One of the deer in my backyard

(Note: last line takes after Dorothy Parker's "what fresh hell is this?")

"Lost Painting"

 

Lost Painting

 

 

So many geese in the graveyard

roving among white rows 

of uniform headstones blurring by

on a Colorado road trip...

 

shifting gears in Albany’s cemetery,

choice site for learning how to 

drive a stick shift with my father: 

stop, start, stall over quiet knolls...

 

we meet a painter in Zermatt, 

his easel set in a path beside plots

planted with flowers, each grave 

its own garden in a town banning cars;

 

final stroke and the painting is ours,

gifted to me at thirteen... forgive 

its fumbling pass from place to place; 

the art of traveling is what holds fast.

 

 

~Charise M. Hoge

 

 

Para mi papá, March 1929-January 2026

 

Fill the Blank

 

Happy New Year! It's a new frame to fill.

What to fill it with: ____________ __________________________ __________________________.

(hint, hint... your intents)

Cheers,

Charise

"Leda"

 

Leda

 

 

Is it consensual,

swan swooning

over the lady...

rushing her body 

as she bathes?

He, a god, uses

trickery three times.

Once, to don the swan,

then to take her down,

last, to drop the act.

All those feathers

she’ll feel forever.

 

~CMH 

My poem "Leda" was chosen for the latest "Next Line, Please" post. What a delight to see the opening lines as David Lehman's title!  Check out what else he has to say at: 

https://theamericanscholar.org/is-it-consensual-swan-swooning-over-the-lady/

Toot Your Horn

In the spirit of celebration, and with my friend's suggestion to "toot your horn," let me share some exciting news. I'm a Pushcart Prize nominee. It feels odd to say so, a bit bewildering, and I'm honored. Thanks to the team at Kelsay Books for selecting "Almost" as one of your six nominations. 

Cheers,
Charise