Ilona Martonfi’s most recent poem to appear here was “The Yellow House” (June 2016) 

Earth from a cellar
By Ilona Martonfi

A man excavates a winter garden
Orangerie in the Tuileries, Paris
1er arrondissement

carries the clay from the bottom to the surface.
It is the slow, dragging steps. Out of a hole
in the earth. In a burrow, twisting and winding,
going deeper into the dark. Rot and decay.
As if a curse rested upon it. Unassailable.
Walls in shades of purples and violet
rehearsals, the gossip going around backstage
sat in the center of an oval room.
Inhabiting one of its discarded skins
ending up covering the old skylights.
La Rive Droite of the Seine,
the west end of l’île de la Cité.
Ever impatient for the next thing. Moved on from.
He felt different, a bit skinny or strange. It is the
sound of lemon trees, he thinks.
A cavernous stone building,
the sound of a yellow moon. Today, there is
no trace that he was ever there.
Seated behind a piano, stage right.

No glazed pottery, hand-painted ceramics,
no pinewood shelf in the library.

Across this blue, blue, azure blue