Poet Spotlight: Rosemerry Whatola Trommer

It has been a joy to discover the poetry of Rosemerry Trommer.  She was featured as Rattle magazine's November Ekphrasis Winner (poetry responding to image) with her poem "Divining." It so struck my ear that I immediately wanted to read more of her work.  Read this poem at: http://www.rattle.com/poetry/divining-by-rosemerry-trommer/. 

To my delight the more I read and heard, the more I appreciated her knack for fresh exquisite ways of capturing life around her. Her language is accessible even as she stewards profound insights that rise up from keenly observing the everyday world.  She is playful and serious in a wonderful synergistic dance ("dancing" is a common reference in her work).  I am particularly drawn to her instinct for creating delicious sound and rhythmic patterns. She hails from rural Colorado and champions poetry in all sorts of contexts, from schools, workshops, monthly readings, to one one one mentoring.  Her website is www.wordwoman.com and her poetry blog is called A Hundred Falling Veils: www.ahundredfallingveils.com.  She has published multiple books and recorded CDs of her poems. Listening to her read her own work is a true delight.

Here are two poems of Rosemerry's that I share with her permission.  The first is from her CD Suitcase of Yeses entitled The Weightless Joy of Ash:

Brilliance gone, light extinct.

Ashes remember when they were trees.

How they greeted rain and sun

with green leaves; how a body

grows stout in dark soil.


We must study silence—

empty air where once leapt

sizzle, crack, and spark!

And then we see

ecstasy has many voices:


wild lick of flame,

warm embered orange.

Even grey weightless ash

dancing wantonly

in whatever wind it finds.  


And here is another lovely poem, also using the imagery of ash called Epistemology from her book The Less I Hold (Turkey Buzzard Press, 2012):


I knew myself a swirl of ash

swept briskly by the wind -

like wings without the weight of birds,

like kites without their strings.


And I, who have been dead, tonight

I know myself the moon

with rings around it in the dark.

And I the darkness, too.


But I am also not the dark,

not moon, not ash, not kite,

not anything that can be held,

something beyond the night.


I know myself a spilling thing,

a raveling, a leak.

Call it blessing, call it luck

the vessel as it breaks.