I recently created a new page called The Poetry and Themes of Iris Lennox, which explores some of the recurring imagery, spiritual landscapes, and questions that continue to shape the work.
The page traces themes of resilience, voice, desert geography, memory, theatre, and the sacred hidden inside ordinary life. It also gathers together several poems that have become central to the collection over time.
Curiosity
by Iris Lennox
My little white cat stands at every doorway
before she enters.
Perhaps it is fear
but I think it’s manners,
and questions that steady her
upon the threshold.
Is there anything here
worth the risk
it takes to
leave the safety of the hallway,
and what will I miss if I do?
No noise behind her,
but I sit typing at my desk
while she
considers,
a tiny pink nose weighing her
options—
I say hello,
which changes nothing,
and now I weigh
my kindness against her indifference
as a thread moves across the floor,
the air purifier
beckoning it closer.
My little white cat enters
not to see me
but to inspect the thread
and to
maybe
prove the room deserves her
presence.
Patience
by Iris Lennox
Moose Tracks are easier to eat in a bowl,
but not nearly as engaging
as racing to the drips
spilling over the sides
of my cone
and knowing there are
peanut butter cups gathering
in the middle.
Why do the sweetest parts
hide in the center?
No one eats M&Ms for the color,
and you’d embarrass yourself
if you dared say,
“the peel is better than the orange.”
We all know
some things ask to be opened—
the banana from the stem,
the shells at the baseball game,
the foil around warm chocolate
you forgot was in your pocket.
At least,
for me,
for today,
for this moment,
all I need to do
is taste sweetness
with the patience of a toddler,
unaware of the nature
of stickiness,
and save the middle
for later.
Father
by Iris Lennox
He left before his first Father’s Day
and mine.
But at least he left in style,
with my mother’s car,
all her cash,
and glasses
wrapped in a towel
because they were
worth keeping.
He worked in a bar
and, from what I hear,
he lived like he did.
At least that’s what strangers told me,
each one carrying
another adventure.
Someone up north.
Another on the west coast.
Then the east
before he landed
in Las Vegas.
The land of dreams
won
and lost
all in the same night.
Sounds about right.
I met my father
for the first time
and the last
one month before he died,
and every Father’s Day
I try
not to care.
Written in response to three words: curiosity, patience, father.
When summer finds the mountain pine
and lightning lifts the cedar,
resin stirs in honey folds,
drawn inward, held there deeper.
Thirty winters gather slow
in snowmelt, moss, and weather;
hawk-shadow drifts on granite ledge,
elk trail, stream, and heather.
High above the darkened slope,
one sealed and shining chamber
waits through June, through velvet rut,
through August dust and ember.
Then fire—
swift as wanting,
hot as blood,
climbing vein and marrow;
bark begins to breathe in flame,
old silence opening narrow.
Scale by scale
the cone gives way,
its hidden weight made lighter;
seed by seed
the mountain learns
what heat can render brighter.
So place your hand
behind my neck
where pulse and promise gather.
Some forms of love
arrive as silk and
some come dressed as weather.
Some ask softly
at the door,
with hands as light as heather.
Some arrive
with sparks asleep,
held deep inside their chamber,
sealed through ring
and resin-dark,
through seed and hidden amber—
until one touch,
one living warmth,
moves slowly through the grain,
and something
long acquainted with the dark
begins
to speak
in flame.
—Iris Lennox
literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
What does paper know
of life?
Only what we tell it.
I spread the pages
across my kitchen table,
one hand on oak,
the other
on language.
Afternoon light
finds the margins first,
then the staples,
then the black strokes
of my name
pressed hard enough
to leave its mark
three sheets down.
Good.
Some truths
deserve
depth.
The paper remembers dates.
It remembers names.
It remembers
who stood where,
who reached first,
who kept speaking,
who went silent,
who needed silence
to feel safe.
The ceiling fan turns.
Edges lift, but dare not
fly away.
They stay.
Pressure makes some run
and others stay.
A throat is made
of cartilage,
muscle,
membrane,
two pale folds
opening
and closing
over air.
Pressure meets tissue.
Even a whisper
requires force.
I know this.
I have taught students
to plant their feet,
unlock their knees,
drop their shoulders,
open their ribs,
and send a line
to the back wall
without asking
the room
for permission.
Never ask for permission.
I have watched
a frightened girl
find her stomach
and then her voice.
I have watched
boys
speak one true sentence
without laughing
and become men.
I have watched
language
enter the body
and change
the way
a person stands.
So when the hand came,
when the pressure came,
when silence
came to wrap around,
to shut me down,
to choke
me—
I know
what a voice is.
The larynx bruises.
The breath adjusts.
Once,
I lost it.
But don’t worry about me.
I just drink the tea,
bite down on the Ricola,
and breathe.
Shakespeare told us
long ago,
“Speak the speech,
I pray you,
trippingly on the tongue,”
And I tripped.
A little.
Then I got back up.
And spoke
until cartilage,
muscle,
membrane,
air,
ink,
oak,
paper,
rooms,
whispers,
and men
who mistake women
for little girls
had to listen.
They reached for an instrument
they didn't understand.
So I took
what the body knew,
what the stage taught,
what the page required,
what courage costs,
and I used
all of it.
Outside,
water climbs
through xylem,
one molecule
pulling another.
Roots enter limestone
by touch.
A seed splits
in darkness
and takes root.
What does paper know
of life?
Only what
we tell it.
—Iris Lennox
literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
The things that slow us down
can't be manufactured.
They have to come—
arrive—
without warning
and before
or after
we're ready.
Today maybe it's a train
rattling through your car
and the wind it leaves behind
picking up the ends of your hair
and pulling you back into
something
some time
when a train was in the distance—
was it home,
or something like it?
When the whistle of the train—
Or a phone call
where the C-word is uttered
and everyone in the room
collapses,
but underneath.
On the inside.
The push and the pull of,
"But wait. Just one second ago
life was about this or that
and now
this." Or
a man catches your eye down the hall,
a woman laughs with a crinkle in her nose—
had it been there before?
Maybe only today
and then a series of
wonderings
when wandering is no place to stay, or
sitting on a rock in the desert
not asking questions and
questions begin
to ask themselves
in the form of prayers you couldn't hear
during this morning's coffee.
When does a prayer begin
and when does it end?
Where was I when I was the one
who took the breath
inward
to address God on an exhale
and why am I still breathing
in one elongated breath since—
when?—
Was I seven?
Or forty-three?
And who was I when I thought
or felt
or began
"Dear Lord . . ."?
What is movement
but our footsteps being heavier
than air
but lighter than
we expected
because the weight of now
never lands
until we look back.
Today I looked up into the trees
in a place I know well
and I saw the sunlight weave
itself through every leaf
and all the way down,
just as it has before
and there was a moment
when all I could do was forget
where I was
forget what I was thinking
and maybe I breathed
but who is to say
because mostly I just
watched.
—Iris Lennox
This red shelf
was a frame
and now it's a stage
upon which I stand
alongside the kind of beauty
usually reserved for dreams.
To gaze upon
is different than
to stand upon
so I suddenly feel the
weight of my own
inadequacy to speak.
Vibrant beauty steals the voice.
Perhaps that's why
our mouths naturally open
in the midst of awe.
The desert speaks for me.
"Sit down, city girl.
I'll take it from here."
And so I do.
Daypack on dirt.
Dust on denim.
Knees bent below me
like a student
poised to receive.
The lesson will be shown.
First
by what bends.
Just north of the wash
where blue grama,
needle grass,
and rabbitbrush
catch the last light
before the canyon
yawns and stretches
into the stars,
thousands of stems
lean west
all at once.
Then east.
Then halfway back,
seed heads suspended
between pull
and release.
A gust slips down
through juniper,
over shale,
between ocotillo thorns,
and the grasses
begin again.
Is it a dance?
A conversation?
Slow.
Loose-hipped.
Unashamed.
They dance
with the sky
like old lovers
who no longer
need music.
Only then
do I notice
who has been
watching
all along.
I'm not the only audience
here.
I'm no audience at all.
Nothing here is done
for me. I'm more like a
stow-away. But—
Sandstone
watches
keeping its spine.
Basalt
keeps its counsel.
A saguaro
holds both arms
where it left them
the year I was born,
suspending the final
clap.
From a distance
it looks
like contrast.
Up close,
it looks
more like trust.
One body
bending.
One body
witnessing.
One learning
through motion.
One learning
through stillness.
And the wind,
passing through them all,
enjoying the secrets
each one keeps—
the loyal wind knows
and withholds the details.
So I sit here,
dusty
studying the grasses' sway
while cactus,
juniper,
and cliff face
watch.
Where does this movement
exist
outside this valley?
Where
else does yielding
carry this much strength?
In kelp forests
thirty feet below
where sunlight cascades
and breaks?
In the chest
of a sleeping child
who trusts her blanket
to stand guard?
In the cottonwood,
the heron,
the mare,
the marriage,
the woman
who has learned
to stop fighting
every fall,
to stop tightening
at every pull,
to stop mistaking
the giving of weight
for the losing of self.
Perhaps languidity
has been here all along.
In muscle.
In memory.
In old roots
and older love.
In anything
that has learned
when to lean.
—Iris Lennox
I crouch where the sandstone breaks
into shallow shelves
the color of old bone,
one knee in dust,
the other
on loose grain
that slides downhill
with every shift of my weight.
The rock is so warm
I imagine an ancient woman
setting a kettle here and
boiling water for tea.
Emerging from the crevice—
yellow.
I admire the Painter
through the painted
and wonder at the Breath
and the breath
it takes to stay,
in this place,
alive.
Four open cups
lifting from a seam
no wider
than the edge of my thumb,
petals folded back
shamelessly
in the morning light.
I lean so close
I can smell the yellow.
Or is that the bone?
I've never smelled either
so it's hard to say.
My hair falls forward
and brushes the soil,
one strand catching
on a blade of green—
I feel like an intruder,
slowly,
hooking it behind my ear,
then lower my face again—
this time with more care—
close enough
to see grains of pollen
caught in the folds,
gold dust gathered
at the center.
Treasure
left out in the open.
A bee was here.
Maybe an hour ago.
Maybe it's only been ten seconds.
How long do bees stay gone?
Quickly,
I peer below the bloom.
Silver leaves spiral outward
in every direction,
coated in tiny hairs
that catch dust,
light,
and whatever the wind
decides to leave behind.
I run one finger
along the stem—
green at first,
then red,
then pale
where the shadow begins
and sunlight
never quite
made the turn.
I guess there are things
even the sun never sees.
The stem narrows,
twists once,
then disappears
into a seam
too thin
for my fingernail.
Still—
there it goes.
Down through lime,
through grit,
through powdered shell,
through pockets of black soil
pressed deep
between layers of stone
older than language.
Roots no thicker
than thread
find water
that probably does not splash.
I sit back
on my heels,
dust coating my jeans,
my hand still warm
from the rock,
and watch
one yellow cup
tilt upward
another fraction
toward the sun.
—Iris Lennox
literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
I sit on the splintered bench
where the trail drops close
to the river’s edge,
one boot untied,
laces dark from morning grass.
The wood pricks through my jeans
only when I swing my legs
so I have to choose between
comfort and carefree—
the mosquito zigzagging
around my wrist
reminds me to
slow down.
Below me, water folds over stone,
slides around a half-sunken branch,
catches for a second
on something I cannot see,
then keeps moving.
A world within a
world
within a
world.
Each with its own
beginning, middle, and
end.
I rest my elbows on my knees
and watch cottonwood seeds
land on the surface,
play Russian roulette
with the current and sometimes lose.
But sometimes they win.
There used to be an island here
but now
only swimming for fish
and food for one crane whose beak
was made for moments
like this.
Across the bank,
a sycamore leans like a dancer—
if I tried that move I might hurt myself.
But the sycamore—
graceful,
roots half exposed,
holding a wall of mud
through another season of rain.
What happens here at night?
Does the dancer feel lonely?
I run my thumb
along the groove
someone carved into the bench
years before I found it.
There used to be a heart
scribbled here.
Was it time
or circumstance
that rubbed it away?
Where do all the lovers go
who leave their hearts
on benches
in trees
and in one another's hands?
The river keeps carrying
branches, leaves, foam,
the occasional flash of silver,
and twenty feet downstream
a man in a fishing boat
has a pole for an arm,
a hat for eyes,
and a dream I cannot see—
I stay on the splintered bench
swinging my legs
watching the sunlight
feeling the shade.
—Iris Lennox
literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson
Morning lifts from the desert
just before noon.
I immediately regret
each moment I missed—
where was I when the sun rose
here?
Light moves across basalt,
sage,
rabbitbrush,
the red earth reflects
warmth
back into the blue.
Sunshine and earth,
a love affair.
A strand of hair
crosses my mouth
and tickles my nose—
as I swipe it away,
I discover
heat-burnished tenderness.
Sunshine, earth, and me—
a love affair.
When I first arrived,
I heard the crunch of my boots
and all I brought with me.
Water and ice sloshing against steel.
Also
half-finished conversations.
A list.
A sentence.
A prayer,
still wanting to know Him more.
Then the wind rises
through the sage
and every branch answers.
Not all at once.
Antiphonal.
There must be a conductor here
somewhere.
One stem,
then another,
then a hundred more
clicking, brushing, rattling
in no hurry
to finish the song.
I have a feeling the song
began at the beginning and
will go on
forever—
it is a gift to hear this movement.
A Common Raven
crosses low over the wash,
wings opening
like someone who knows me
and awaits my approach
to the threshold.
Clearly, I am welcome here.
Higher still,
a White-throated Swift
not to be outdone
cuts through the blue
so quickly
I hear the turn
before I find the bird.
At my feet,
a bee disappears
into yellow rabbitbrush,
comes out dusted,
and goes right back in.
I'm proud of the bee
and respect it enough
to be a little scared, too.
Farther out,
a Horned Lark
drops three clean notes
into the open country
and flies off again.
I'm struck by his boldness
in speaking and not waiting—
tell the truth,
then let the echoes
do the work.
Beauty and truth—
companions from here to
Kingdom come.
Even the grasshopper
seems to understand.
Click.
Up.
Moving on.
Trust.
And between all of it—
space.
Wide, sunlit,
unoccupied space.
The kind that only exists
here
and anywhere
there is desert.
Around the globe
but this one is mine,
today.
I stand
until my thoughts
up.
Click.
Moving on.
Standing still—
Stone.
Feather.
Wing.
Dust.
Breath.
The desert receives
what morning brings
and sends it upward
in praise.
—Iris Lennox
Psalm 145
In a desert embrace between blue sky and sand,
A lone cactus flourishes in a thirsty land.
Her guardian spines, innocent and wise,
Hold fast against winds she bravely defies.
Sandy soil enshrines roots running deep.
Silent sentinels giggle while mimicking sleep—
Toughened skin above, pulsing with might,
Bold rebellion beneath the barbaric sunlight.
White blossoms bloom with delicate grace
A coruscating crown in this desolate place.
Petals unfold, poetry in hues,
Through armored shroud, her beauty renews.
Survivor of drought and weather obscene,
The cactus stands, a desert queen.
In silence she writes mirage-soaked verses
To a curious soul who nearby traverses.
“Dear cactus,” he ventures, “courageous and free,
can you whisper your tales only to me?”
She smiles coyly—she knows, but won’t tell—
Accustomed to hellos, acquainted with farewells.
—Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox 