Wintered Womb
Underneath the thrice ploughed, fertile, fallow field
Impregnated within a wintered, woven, womb
Of richly composted humus
I lay seeking sustenance, nourishment from
The oxygen filled wintered mist that
Drizzles, seeping, replenishing the amniotic fluids
That trickles through the membranous umbilical cord
Fertilizing, greening,
Ensuring a bountiful spring harvest.
Image: Basket of Sprouts by Vincent Van Gogh
posted by Heather Blakey @ 7:50 PM
7 comments
The 
7 Comments:
Oh, lord . . . slay me with a word. What are we going to do with you, Heather? This is stunning. Visual and sensual to the point of being almost onomatopoeia. I mean the POEM is onomatopoeia, the whole thing sounds like what it is. I don’t know if that is even possible. All the definitions I found said “a word” or “a phrase”. I’ve never run across an entire poem that I felt was onomatopoeia. Fascinating.
I am, of course, a sucker for alliteration, but this is something beyond.
Yeah, and so’s your Van Gogh.
COSTELLO
Gob-stopped
Well thank you Winnie. I will take a Shelley style bow especially for you. Wintered Womb sprang from nowhere today. I was walking the dogs in misty, drizzling rain, thinking of ancient Thule, Demeter and Persephone when I observed two ravens perched, caressing one another. I stood and watched them, called my usual 'hello sisters' and the words Wintered Womb sprang into my mind.
Like you I have always had a passion for alliteration and onomatopoeia but never imagined writing an onomatopoeia poem. Of course, you can see the womb lying there in the wintered soil, fertilizing its inhabitant - me!
I have been spending a lot of time in dark places darling and it is reassuring to learn that it is simply the time I need to 'green', send out sprouts and blossom.
So much said, Heather, in just nine lines. Were the ravens speaking through you or were they your Muses in disguise?
I agree with Winnie, your poem is onomatopoeia. I have the desire to wrap myself inside your words and snuggle into their deeper meaning.
Love Vi
Oooooooh Vi, you hit is on the nose! It does just make you want to snuggle right inside the words, that is WHY it is onomatopoeic. Like a quilt. Or a what do you call it Heather? Dunna? Donna? Donut?
"I have the desire to wrap myself inside your words and snuggle into their deeper meaning."
Thank you Vi. These are, indeed, fine words of praise, words that poets love to hear. (Is that really me naming myself poet? How extraordinary!)
Between you and me it was the Ravens who spoke through me. I am a mere conduit for them. Needless to say, when one flew by, as I walked my dogs tonight, I stopped to say hello and to listen for more words.
Think of me with my third eye, silently looking through the threads of the wintered, woven womb,watching,waiting as the first signs of greening streak through my being.
Like a quilt. Or a what do you call it Heather? Dunna? Donna? Donut?
Doona darling! A doona is to lie within, curled in foetal position, buffeted from bitterness.
Dear all, a new kid on the block - finally got it Heather - just joined after finding Lemuria quite by accident on purpose. Love the discussion about the ravens and indeed saw two beautiful ones, a pair, making a nest for their own comfort on Sunday morning in the Botanic Gardens, Melbourne. They are intuitive birds and know the black earth as their own. I think they know about doonas too...Monika
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