Three Poems by Jim Tilley

 

The Sagging Tulip 

 

The yellow tulip in its vase had drooped,

its petals still vibrant, but the flower

hanging its head in sadness. So you snipped

a little off the stem, added water.

Minutes later, it erected itself,

the two leaves also turgid, fresh water

the much needed Viagra for tulips.

But then, too soon it seemed, the laden head

started to sag again, happiness turned

so quickly to sadness, often the case.

It’s those petals quenching their thirst, getting

heavier, the stem no longer able

to support the weight of the flower, fresh

water not the needed medication.

 

English Oaks 

 

In the driving rain, they begin to look

like brides decked out in their wedding-day gowns,

most of the leaves turned over, exposing

their white undersides (a certain frailty

other oaks don’t display, their leaves instead

more like leather gloves and the stems sturdy

enough to repel the lances striking

their topside green), such weakness contrary

to the prevailing view of the English,

a resolute people able to give

back as much as they take, and they can take

a lot, even when bombs rained down onto

their homeland, never shrinking from battle,

not turning tail when faced with an onslaught.

 

Marriage as a Pair of Wind Turbines 

 

The last time I stayed at this garden inn without a garden

and peered out over the harbor, the three-armed windmills

in the distance were dancing, as they are today, all six

 

glinting in the sun, a pair close together and another

farther away, with two singles in between, perhaps trying

to get together but too firmly rooted in their separate ways.

 

The pairs remind me of marriage—when things are good,

a slow dance, the arms of one in a pair rotating almost

synchronously with the arms of the other as if they were

 

holding each other tight, but then drifting apart as each

responds a little differently to a shifting wind. Wind

keeps the marriage vibrant, each windmill coming to

 

a dead stop when there is a near-dead calm. When it

changes direction, the arms reorient themselves, the long

blades of one pair perhaps not seeing it the same way as

 

those in the other pair, each windmill needing to do its own

thing. When the wind picks up, all is good again, a slow

arm-against-arm, hand-in-hand dance possible once more.

 

Jim Tilley has published four full-length collections of poetry and a novel with Red Hen Press. His short memoir, The Elegant Solution, was published as a Ploughshares Solo. Five of his poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His most recent poetry collection, Ripples in the Fabric of the Universe: New & Selected Poems, was published in June 2024. His forthcoming collection, When Godot Arrived, will be published in August 2026.

 

Website: jimtilleypoetry.com