Isaacson's Hourglass

Isaacson's Hourglass is
emblazoned with its symbols,
character and resonance
of the United Kingdom.

Written by Emily Isaacson,
it is her latest work of art,
poetry published in the book Victoriana.

Isaacson's Hourglass details the poetry
of a waning empire,
on the verge of transformation.

Hourglass

The minute grain of sand

through the hourglass, counts

each moment of me,

each person I become,

with airs or plain common sense—

You dressed me in linen,

as the wild grass burrs,

and anointed me with fine perfume

from the paisley flowers of the field;

streaming down my forehead

was your oil.

So I was cleansed from within,

so I walked free like a man

released from a prison.

The temple’s gate welcomed me,

the church house sang my arias,

they trellised the treble

and reverberated the bass,

note by note.

The hourglass sand is

whiter than snow,

never runs sour,

is as multicoloured as fire,

and salty as the sea,

pouring and pouring

until it turns again.

Emily Isaacson

Threnody of the Thistle

Thistle Down

Thistle manor, away off the moor,

here the thistle down blows...

and away lullaby, mother sing,

lullaby to a prince and a king.

Here there is no sense of repeat,

just a mild prickly pod bed,

enumerating the signs

of harvest to summer’s end.

The trees and the heather

all lean like the wind.

Eventually the thistle down speaks—

down, down, thistle moor,

dusting o’er the creaking floor

to the stone gorse garden door:

resurgence from poverty to kin,

from ignorance to education,

forgiving liniment

from within, cold without

from the imminent

moor fog, hazing our sight.

From cradle to Yule log,

burn foolish, burn bright!

Emily Isaacson

Canon of Bloom

Find a door to the garden

repository of bushels of peonies

in fiery purple as pardon,

effulgent contrast to the spicy chives,

juicy tomatoes, and spindly green beans,

continuance after the planting of seeds.

Armfuls of yellow daffodils

are a brilliant surprise at Easter.

Tulips riotous red—

each plant’s color diffuses

with the morning

and rises with the heat of afternoon.

The poplar down blew

over the back fence of

the schoolyard;

I reached for the knobby trees

as I scratched in my notebook.

Herbs, fruits, and flowers

my mother carefully planted, weeded, and pruned,

with an eye for their immortal powers.

A city could flourish beneath this hand,

with prudence. But cities would be tombs.

All for the petals of a brightened land,

canon of faithful bloom.

Emily Isaacson

Burning Cinders

I listened from out the little window

to see if I could hear your song

in the lane,

and when the familiar whistle sounded,

even my dulcet heart gave way.

There was the song of us

that whistled on the moor

before the seasons began,

when we knew we’d be together

even in a foreign land.

There was the wood

that burned dry in the hearth;

I took a coin from my purse,

and counted the face on it

memorizing the moments your touch

reached out in healing.

There was the building of

something new amid the old,

a search for independence,

a need to voice a referendum.

The old country calls me home.

Its architecture has not yet crumbled.

I wave from my window

and write Scottish poems

to the sonorous bagpipe,

the fire, burning, burning cinders.

Emily Isaacson

Dirge of the Daffodil

Rightly in my grief, I remain, clutching daffodils;

fondly yours, and the author of this dirge.

Whether I roll like the sea,

or drift as the clouds,

I always know you’ll come back to me.

Though the earth turn swift,

or my life decay,

I always know you’ll

come home some day.

When I stood at the church,

and said my goodbye,

I knew it would not be forever,

there’s a place in the sky.

Emily Isaacson

Idyll of the Iris

The nacreous, mother-of-pearl cloud

between sunset and sunrise bid

the clay lie beneath the earth,

not yet formed on a potter’s wheel,

illusive, waiting for a cup, a bowl, a vase,

to procure out of its shapeless form.

Yet healing emanates

where lack of dying dwells.

The bonny swan rise o’er the calm

pond swells, and iris stands straight—

a less than mediocre gate—its tear

shaped bud, from heaven descended.

Its brilliant hue, a door 

by which we entered.

A woman in her fragile form

became purple iris of the morn.

Emily Isaacson

Elegy of the Royal Rose

There was always a royal rose,

in deep red hue, loyal

to a nation: entwining

as I looked deep into time.

The empire that bore

your name wore

the breastplate

with the coat of arms,

and sacred incense.

I was first to hold you,

in the lighted hour of truth,

and last to see you go,

the glisten of lush red,

the blush of pink,

a momentary trace of snow,

birth pang of departed lands—

life nestled in my open hands,

unrepentant starts,

O Commonwealth of hearts.

Emily Isaacson

Love Poems of the Fleur-de-lis

Love Poem of the Lily

The difficulties of life cannot overcome thee,

for thou art my constant and divine.

The gilded lily speaks from a royal age,

apportioning regal kindness

as a pillar of society, while youth rage.

Here you stood on a cliff with

the wind in your hair,

you were more savage than mild,

more gilded than wild—

the wind howled,

and there was a long space.

The empire of kindness grew.

Black note. Entwined.

Grace note. Elegy. Rest.

Then everyone looked at you

and saw you were unequally yoked.

The planets and moons began to fall out of space,

and you were out of sorts,

bought a glitzy ball gown, curled your hair, twirled

as a Dowager before the waltz.

Emily Isaacson

Butterfly Tears

I once said I love you

and that love remains;

constant through years,

the blood in my veins.

I never will leave you,

be I poor or of wealth,

as the sun crosses the sky,

without guile, without stealth.

And though the ashes remain of our years,

they are sacred because of our butterfly tears.

Emily Isaacson