two poems by Carol Nesbit



I never thought my prayer would end this way.
True, the god who chases me is young and beautiful,
but so am I, and chaste.

I prayed his golden arms would not enfold me,
his virile hands not grasp my virgin breasts.

And so my blood thickens and grows sweet.
Beneath Apollo’s clasp my tender flesh
tautens and grows grey as newborn ash.

My legs, my body cleave and fill with sap
my arms soar into graceful boughs,
my fingers leaves as light as butterflies.

I am reborn, the laurel tree,
and though this was no victory for him,
the god shall wear upon his golden curls
a crown of leaves made of my memory.



Montauk Monarch


Wings folded, the monarch lies
just above tidemark on this October beach.
His fragile form might be shredded by the sea
so I gently move him to a safer spot,
his legs lace on an ebony valentine,
his wings a golden dirge.

I have been following sandpipers
skittering into the waves and out,
but I hold something sacred in my hand.
I put him on a sun-bleached log
to dry in the healing light.



Carol Nesbit has been writing poetry her entire life, and she taught the great poets of the world for decades in Honors English classes. She believes that poetry encourages the best in people and helps them experience the world like no other genre. Retired now, she has been encouraged by local writing groups, particularly “Writers on the Sound, and she continues to write and share her love of poetry .


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