The Geometry of Dandelions by Jo Angela Edwins

The Geometry of Dandelions

by Jo Angela Edwins

Google the phrase, and notice

in magnified precision so many

lines criss-crossed like city streets,

like snowflakes caught the instant before

the melting, these fragile planets captured

the second before a sudden wind

disperses this fluff in germinative

splendor, for this is the stuff of science

and art coupled, the tiny white feather

duster tips, the velvet black background

of the photograph, the memories

called to mind of blowing these minute

mock balloons to smithereens,

the milky dew that spills from plucked

stems, the tough green crabgrass rooted

in sand or in loam, the smell of growth

on your fingers, this spirograph map of your world

exploding from the merest whiff

of your toddling breath, like a firework burst

on a summer night, like a meteor never

destined to become a meteorite

exploding in space, its particles insistent

on descent, but, miraculous, they rise

through uncharted skies to become, somewhere, stars

no physicist charts, cores blazing too hot

to imagine the death they will cool to some day,

and all of this drama, this inanimate rage,

takes place on a stage light years beyond

the spot your feet plant to as you stretch your neck

backward (obtuse angle, mad hyperbola)

and begin the necessary inhale.

This lovely poem was published in the all-around wonderful issue of West Trestle Review, July 2020. See it here.

I love all of the different ways Edwins describes the dandelion--such marvelous metaphors: city streets, snowflakes, fluff, planets, feathers, mock balloons, maps, fireworks, meteors, and stars! Some of these descriptions, as are others I did not mention, are similes of previous metaphors, just building on what has come before. This poem is overloaded--in a good way--of incredible images, going in all directions, eventually taking us into the cosmos, and then bringing us back to earth. It is a dizzying trip.

And did you notice? This entire poem is one sentence!

To start, the poet begins with "Google the phrase," such an ordinary thing that we have all done. And how ordinary dandelions are--a nuisance of suburban lawns everywhere, but a joy to children who make wishes and blow (until they age a bit and then are tasked with weeding them from the yard).

But our speaker wants us to think about dandelions in relation to geometry--a very extraordinary request! And for what end? Because

this is the stuff of science

and art coupled

Many of us already believe this, knowing science dominates in visual arts and literary arts. But calling dandelions "art" is a very different perspective, and it really sets the rest of the poem going off into space (after a more literal description). Things then explode, after a reference to spirographs (more childhood joy).

We end with drama and rage, but back on earth, in a position that allows the poem to give us a straight science/math term (obtuse angle) and one that has a subjective adjective defining it (mad hyperbola). Both refer to curves, and in this case, our body position because the speaker is further directing her poem to us (your feet, you stretch your neck). Prior to this, we had the command to start the poem, and about midway through

the smell of growth

on your fingers

We are in it deeply now and now we inhale. Inhaling, taking those deep breaths, is often the best thing to do when things become too much (the drama, the rage). Here, however, we are in pure science--this inhale is necessary, needed to keep us alive. It is, remember, a summer day, filled with memories and science and art. We are stationary. It is the dandelion being this and that, going here and there, exploding and descending. We are just breathing.

I urge you to check out the other poems in this issue of West Trestle Review, as well as other issues. You will be rewarded with lost of great poems!