Two Poems by Melissa Studdard

Melissa Studdard’s books include the poetry collection I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast and the novel Six Weeks to Yehidah. A short film of the title poem from I Ate the Cosmos for was an official selection for the Trinidad and Tobago Film Festival and the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival. Other poems of hers have been made into car magnets, telepoem booth recordings, and Houston City Banners. Her writings have appeared in a wide range of publications, such as The Guardian, Poets & Writers, New Ohio Review, Harvard Review, and Psychology Today. She is the executive producer and host of VIDA Voices & Views for VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, president of the women's caucus for Associated Writing Programs, and an editor for American Microreviews and Interviews. These two poems, both based on the myth of Icarus, have never been paired before, as “You Were a Bird; You Are the Sea” was collected in I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast, while “Stomp the Ground” was written later and appeared in Southern Humanities Review.

Stomp the Ground

So Daedalus turned his mind to subtle craft,

An unknown art that seemed to outwit nature:

He placed a row of feathers in neat orders

—Ovid

If they tell you build it,

stomp the ground, dancer,

stomp the ground.

And swirl, you,

like wine in a gyrating glass,

while clasping Ariadne’s

hand, holding life close,

and inventing honey

beneath your tongue.

And if they tell you

come now, trail string

through whorls of memory

to find your way out,

back in again,

and around,

charming ants

into choreography

behind you,

across dance floors

and over the membranes

of time. Nautilus,

spirula,

unicursal man,

with a seashell to one ear

and the other to the ground,

listen when they say

stay there,

and fly, you,

dreamer, round

the tower

of mind.

And spin, you,

forever

deeper

into that device,

ignoring the feathers

that brush your windows,

and the winds  

that call you

to distant flight. 

Stay you, father,

until your son learns how to fly.

You Were a Bird; You Are the Sea

—inspired by the John Sokol painting, Icarus Practicing

Stretch them wide

as God’s first breath.

From tip to tip

there is no time.

Just the rumbling

of a tune

in your makeshift

beak, and bright

sky galloping

through the hollow

of bone. Bucket

of air, spine built

from light, boy

full of flutters

and drafts—you

speak mountain

stream, laurel leaf,

rolling cloud—

the dialect of flight.

The world drifts

like a madness

inside you—earth, 

trees, and birds,

feathers, wings,

and night, the start

and end of time

rowing through

blood’s currents,

sailing inside

the freedom

of mind,

now split open

by a whirlwind

of koan, pushed

like air through

sky’s vast lung.

When I go,

let me go

like you, Icarus,

past my own

limits before

I fall. Let me

be a flesh-toned

streak in the sky,

a flash in the blue,

a sunburst

of wonder

rejoining

the ripples

of sea.