Welcome to the first installment of The Compass Poems! These are my mythical interpretation of the four cardinal directions. This concept has been meaningful to me for almost ten years, and I'm excited to share this fascination that is a little mysterious even to me -- I just know that I like this concept. The poems have little to no basis in reality -- they are simply my mind's imagining of the compass.

Without further ado:

The Compass Poems
South

Warm.
Or, at least, warmer.
And gold —
Shades of gold all around, all times.
Sometimes it’s a hot, blazing yellow,
Marble slabs of sunlight.
Other times, stinging mustard.
But most mornings shimmer
With translucent light
The color of a veil.

Summer heat — 
the colors draw into themselves
before bleeding into the atmosphere.
The days are molasses — 
slow and steady and creeping.

Wide.
Vast, open spaces.
Fields of green like emerald,
of white like snow, 
goldenrod the color of her hair.
The land is made for growing.
Everywhere, you can feel the roots of a life
Reaching and springing and digging and drinking.
Grasses and reeds tremble —
When you pass through them, 
They cut you like paper,
They scrape your skin like a pumice stone.

The radiant sun
drains the people, like a slow drip.
Everything is bright here —
the rivers sparkle,
the seas are a mirror.
The land whispers,
Talks to itself,
To the wind,
To the sky.
It discusses the bounty,
the heat,
the sun, 
the slow turn of the earth.

This is home to those who are born here.
Those who are not — they know you.

Both smooth and sharp,
gentle and fierce,
soft and hard
Is the land.
Are the people.

Speak softly.
Walk tall.

Comment