New Shoots Public Submissions
By Tuğçe Akyüz
Professional danc-er? Sorry, I’m new here.
Dowser, corrected the man at the door. Using a forked stick
he found water. Slogged across the continents, a squatter
I was, my eyes tamed by corrections, tumbled down
hijacked and re-versed, welcomed him into the house
Sub-urbs was where we lived - a weak husband, a small job
big dry garden. He came in with his sticks and forks, he came in
wobbling under our plain roof and adjectives with arms
muscled and a face thickened like a hard-boiled egg
Doodlebugging, well-witching, never heard?
A crafty man with a pro-fession and important words.
He would put our homestead in repair
And raise another brood, with the prospect of water
restore the fecundity to nature at the mossy patch there
he took my hand to air where I held the stick and
watched the witch steep in.
We seemed to him so alien, specimen-like
coupled and married, so flustered with our survival bugs
and smelly teas -hurried, he talked to me in sprints
Taking his tongue all the way to his molar teeth:
a vein, a hickory, a pendulum and spring.
“Some Sorcerers did boast they had a Rod,” he recited.
The Sourcers? Sourcing the hidden Treasures, I slighted.
Dark time my husband dined and whined looking
at the marks on the backyard: Skeptics, science even
a hoax he twined. And closed for the night
had his coffee, fruits peeled and sliced
watching the telly -already dazed he was after
tabulating and tallying afar
accounting and counting aloof
One diagonal forth, one zigzag back
All morning, no time mourning, the man did not rest
For a bucket of water, I remembered, how long
my grandmother traversed -and when he said
Gotta move on doll
The witch did not understand, she was
new here -but there was no water, treasures lied
elsewhere leaving as mockery the dream of
well-fed cows and succulent grapes
So he told the downhearted witch a story
about rabbits and foxes -and all otherworldly creatures
Like the buffalo, whose sound made her laugh
And remember the yaks back home.
There was not one or two, but four attempts made at this
So listen carefully, we went to establish the rabbits
but they all died
because the animals released were tamed
and white -and not until the wild rabbits
came, the death stopped. And that is how
the nature likes it here -wild and new
like you and a pom and a jackaroo.
With the water, the animals, the nature we hardly
learned, he said, before he ever returned
leaving her mid-air to plant the hazel-tree from
a virgin bough, destitute of sprigs
and quite bare.
This poem is a public submission created for Red Room Poetry's New Shoots digital poetry anthology.