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Clay Road

poetry of Emily Isaacson

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velvet night, 

oh, swans upon thy wood.
 
- Emily Isaacson, The Fleur-de-lis

Sequential Poem

An epic poem: a narrative poem by Lilith Street . . .  Read here

Posted Sundays for the week, with backreading to catch up.

The Fleur-de-lis

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THE FLEUR DE LIS

The Fleur-de-lis is a collector's delight of woman poet Emily Isaacson.


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New Book Released!

                                 


"There are so many facets of connection, made real and renewed every time we are in nature. The throwback to animism, where we acknowledge a higher power that has given soul to nature, and spirit to trees, endears us to them like friends."

Emily Isaacson's series of poetry for each month of the year celebrates a child born in each month.

A gift to her family, and their myriad grandchildren, she includes botanical poems for each month with her selections from the Celtic Tree Calendar that have gained new insight and significance.

The symbolic trees and botanicals, heralded in the form of odes, are selected by Isaacson for each month of the year. The poems bring to mind special qualities for each plant and child in a day and age when the spiritual nature of trees and their connection to us is largely forgotten.

Isaacson references herbology, botany, remedies from botanicals, and the essence of cottagecore in this delightful book for children and adults alike.

Read more . . .

Buy now


 

Love Shall Burn


Joan of Arc Speaks to her Jailer

 

Here, in my lonely cell I am yours,

each stone upon another . . .

from each leaf to flower to fruit,

am I in a broken corpse, never to desert—

yet water from a vessel I am poured.

 

If I resist death, I will not live,

and my final hour to live or die draws near,

for all my life lies open before you:

a babbling stream, a river surging,

I cannot go before the purging.

 

This trial will not comfort me,

it will call upon my vainglory,

this trial tread upon my heart

like the wine pressers upon grapes,

leaving my scarlet blood in their wake.

 

This wine, this oil, so swift betrayed,

I had but see the other face,

the face of prisons of the mind,

the voice of prisoners left behind;

the details I could not find.

 

I cry out to God my only keeper.

Accept my sacrifice of peace,

the rumblings of my dried-out tongue,

the vanilla incense of my heart:

all my prayers rise to you.

 

I am not far from you in this barren place,

here you are the halloed mother.

The angels whisper their silence,

but when they sing,

heaven echoes as a cathedral.

 

Come to me quickly,

that I may raise my hands

for the evening sacrifice,

chained, though,

they are, in surrender.
 

You I must serve; you are my jailer.

In my principality of darkness,

where I foster kindness,

you are hard-hearted—

where I am pure of mind, you are cruel:

 

Equal to one causing suffering

that squeezes the heart like a famine,

and flares like a temper

where the world was

once beautiful.

 

Plucking my eyelashes

from my brittle tearing eyes,

you are bent on destruction, an obsession

with cleanliness in place of the love

of God’s fellow creature.

 

While my body seeks to escape,

my mind flies like a bird,

winging into the hot sun,

fluttering in your hands

as in a gold cage.

 

I can sing in the darkness,

yet by you I am silenced,

my elegies of love become mute.

The purity of salt cleanses my wounds,

yet I am alone most of the time.

 

By you I am pierced by metal,

my medieval hands are wrung by holes,

as I hang upon the wood,

while by you my blood and water flows

and my tears, salty, mingle down.

 

Emily Isaacson


 

Requiem

                                                                          


Requiem . . . the mysterious poem in seven stanzas that premiered right before the coronation of King Charles the III.

Read the poem 

Watch the video


 

What inspires the poetry?

              


Emily Isaacson's poetry draws its inspiration from many sources, but one of her favourites is ballet.


 

Edna St. Vincent Millay


Famous picture of the girl poet under magnolias . . .  


It was among the branches of just such a tree that a young poet posed for portraits that would become famous. Quintessentially “poetic,” the images of Edna St. Vincent Millay are immensely alluring. 

Read more . . .

 Where the ferns swagger

and the truth lilies blow, 
the torrents of the ocean gather, 
and the storm currents go.
 
_Emily Isaacson, The Fleur-de-lis

Poetry in Fashion

                                       

 

 

                                     

                      


                       "Then the garden of your soul will bloom . . ."


 

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