‘Sex in the English Garden’ and Other Poetry by Sally Cook

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Sex in the English Garden

Light, feathery Astilbe
Sways gently in the breeze
Afraid she always will be
Faint fluff beneath the trees

Concealing dear Sweet William,
Who rings each foxglove’s bell
Mid coreopsis ruffles,
While lily, like a shell

With deeper inner meaning,
Disdains to join with them;
Spends all the time just leaning
Upon her silver stem,

And hopes to rearrange a
Great sunflower’s golden eye—
She’ll see that when Hydrangea
Drops snowballs in July.

First published in National Review

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If Only

If Henry James had been at all paternal,
Married and fathered little Jameses, what
Adventures might have spiced his daily journal
Instead of other people’s feelings. But

At least he didn’t starve within a garret
As that poor painter Vincent did for years
Without a bit of sirloin, or a carrot,
Or even a sharp blade to slice his ears.

Our Emily spent hours in contemplation,
And agonized about the great Unknown.
Some kids, the PTA, a station wagon
Would have ensured she’d never be alone.

Then there was Mozart, hounded by a chorus
Of those who told him “Trust! We know what’s right!”
Some penicillin might have saved him for us;
There could have been more music of the night.

So many artists turn out to be not as
Productive as they might have been, and fade—
Just think, we’d have a dozen more sonatas,
If Beethoven had worn a hearing aid!

First published in TRINACRIA

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A former Wilbur Fellow and six-time Pushcart nominee, Sally Cook is a regular contributor to National Review, and has appeared in venues as varied as Chronicles, Lighten Up On Line, and TRINACRIA. Also a painter, her present works in the style known as Magic Realism are represented in national collections such as the N.S.D.A.R. Museum in Washington, D.C. and The Burchfield-Penney, Buffalo, NY.