Honeycomb
by Tina Barry
There were trees,
and beneath them
an apiarist's bee box,
ugly in its simplicity,
with slits for windows.
An abandoned,
three-tiered tenement.
I had wondered about bees
in those boxes, their industry
so directed: The queen,
black wings glittering,
adored and loathed.
My eye to a slit:
No bustling inside
No extruded amber
Wings onyx straight jackets
A low hum of displeasure.
I once lived in an apartment
with too many roommates.
One initialed each egg
in its carton.
Another swigged scotch
till she stung.
I think of us now
in that warren of rooms,
our droning lives.
How small we became
to fit there.
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Author's Note
This poem is posted at the great lit mag The Light Ekphrastic. The editor, Jenny O'Grady, pairs a writer with a visual artist. The writer creates a poem inspired by the artist's work and vise-versa. Thanks, Jenny. Happy V-Day Fictionauters!
Here's the link:
http://thelightekphrastic.com/february-2014-issue-17/barry-pfeiffer-feb-14/..
I like the parallel views into the hives.
Thanks Gary!
There's something almost apocalyptic here - the indifference toward the everyday. Perfect ending.
Thanks so much, DJ!
Very, very nice. Vivid, imaginative, wise. *
Good stuff.
Nicely done, Tina.*
Thanks Jake, Steven and Joani for the kind words about "Honeycomb" and for the stars!
Really love the imagery, and the metaphor of the bees like humans, the quiet, sheer tiny-ness of our existence speaks volumes in its own quiet manner. And the duplicity of words like "droning." Outstanding use of alliteration in phrases like "swigged scotch till she stung." And a penetrating rhythm overall. Quite a deep poem here, Tina! Brilliant.
Fave.
Thanks so much, Robert, for the kind comments about "Honeycomb," and for the star. I'm flattered.
Thanks for giving "Honeycomb" a star, anonymous bestower.