from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

Her feet 

were calloused and cracked  

like rocks 

in plowed ground, 

like stones 

in turned soil, 

the soil 

she walked over 

barefooted 

as her grandfather 

plowed and turned 

the earth 

with donkey and plow. 

She had 

the feet 

of her grandfather, 

for she had walked 

beside him 

down the long rows 

of beans and corn 

since the time 

she learned 

to toddle. 

He had 

walked 

up and down 

those rows 

until his feet 

were broken and bent 

and made him appear 

to be 

continually 

genuflecting 

to God, 

or to the wealthy land owner, 

or to the land itself. 

Her feet 

would one day 

be broken and bent 

like that.

When her feet 

were in the soil 

it was 

as if 

they were part 

of the land, 

as if 

they held the secrets 

of the earth, 

as if 

they knew the mystery 

of how seed 

and dirt 

and water 

can become 

a bean 

in a pod,

a kernel 

on an ear 

of corn. 

Her heart 

was in her feet, 

her heart 

was in the land, 

her heart 

was in the mystery 

itself.

Her feet spoke, 

"Estoy aquí, 

I am here, 

estoy aquí." 

Her feet 

were signs 

to the world - 

"I am 

a human being." 

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from ‘poems for a brown eyed girl’

They held

hands

side to side, 

shoulder to shoulder,

and leaned 

Into each other 

until they touched 

cheek to cheek. 

She turned

and kissed him, 

her lips 

touching 

his skin 

so softly

he thought 

they were 

the petals 

of the magnolia flower 

that grew 

on the branch 

of the tree 

outside his window, 

her breath 

blowing 

his skin 

so gently

he thought 

it was 

the wind

of the early morning breeze

that rocked 

the tree 

outside his window.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

from my chapbook “poems for a brown eyed girl”


She saw him
standing
on the rocks
that connected
her land
with the water.


The wind blew
off the icy sea
and whipped
his brown face
until he looked
as if
he might
become a part
of the salt,
sand
and sea
that made up
the Arctic land.


The three shirts
and one coat
he owned
weren't enough
to protect him
from the cold,
and the skin
of his cheeks
and the water
in his eyes
froze
with the sunset.


"He looks
so small
against the sky
and the sea,"
she thought.


"He looks
so weak
against the rocks
and the ground."


Small,
weak things
struggled
to survive
around the Chukchi Sea,
she knew.


Her heart
was big
and strong
and warm,
and that
is what helped
her live
in this cold,
icy
place.


Her eyes
were brown
and kind,
and that
is what helped
her see
in this fierce,
white
land.


"I know
his heart
is big
and strong
and warm,
too,"
she thought
as she took
the lantern
out of the window
and headed
into the evening
to guide him
in.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

I’ve been thinking and writing a lot about what I call “the small, open spaces” between us. It’s where hearing takes place, it’s where ‘here’ing takes place. Here is a poem about those small, open spaces.

They stood 

side by side, 

and she reached out 

and took 

his hand

inside of hers. 

Their fingers 

intertwined 

and their palms 

made a small, open space 

between them. 

This place was warm 

in the snow 

that covered the land 

of Point Hope, 

was warm 

against the icy wind 

that blew 

off the Chukchi Sea. 

"Life is 

in the small, open spaces 

between us," 

she said.

And so 

they stood 

quietly, 

hand in hand.

Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

He looked 

out the window 

over the old city 

and saw the clouds 

rolling in 

from the ocean. 

He felt 

the cool breeze 

across his body. 

He turned quietly 

and watched 

her sleep. 

The sheet rose and fell 

with each breath. 

"Is she dreaming 

of a time 

or a place, 

of the sea 

or of me?”

he wondered.

He laid down 

beside her

and thought

of her brown eyes,

of the way she looked

at the world

and him.

He moved 

close to her 

until he could feel

the breathing 

of her breath,

the beating 

of her heart 

on his body.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

The curves 

of her body 

reminded him

of the gently rolling hills 

below the mountains 

where he lived as a boy. 

Her brown eyes 

were the land to him.

She was beautiful 

like the land, 

like the flowers 

he found 

as he roamed the countryside

barefooted 

as his grandfather 

turned the earth 

with a donkey and a plow, 

like the leaves 

of the trees 

that sparkled green 

after the rains 

of the rainy season.

“Mi mariposa hermosa.”

“Estoy aqui, estoy aqui.”

They made love 

to each other 

to the sound 

of the rain

falling softly 

on the window 

in the city

of Havana.

               - Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018

from “poems for a brown eyed girl”

She loved 

the sea. 

She knelt 

on her knees

in the water, 

and felt 

the swirl 

around her legs 

as it moved 

back and forth, 

in and out, 

with the tide. 

She tasted 

the salt 

as it splashed 

against her body 

and broke apart 

into a thousand drops 

that caressed her face 

and touched her lips. 

She listened 

to the elemental song 

as it shushed the evening 

with a lullaby 

sung

for ages. 

She looked 

with brown eyes

at the shades of blue 

as it moved gently 

toward the horizon 

and the sky.

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2018