Cry down the sky,
Walt Whitman
cry down the sky,
weep for the lady beyond the bridge
With her hands upraised: grieve
for the passing of the myth.
the slow tongues of the sea
rush forward, much the same.
The tavern will close in a while,
I got my dollars lying out.
These are just the sweet caresses
that would please her,
sundry poems
scattered in the landscape.
Slow tongues,
licking the dry Earth-
Such maps do not mention
Namida by name
in the estuaries and salt creeks;
the wrong lane to be in
when the lines are long.
The lives of the rabbits are short
the smile of the fox is gone.
Much the same the streets
and scared lives
shavings of iron
mix with the scarred excavation,
a wasted surgery.
The compass is awry
the tongues are thirsty.
Much the same the streets
leading to Namida’s grave.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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These words are strong and they way you compose this piece and place the phrases makes it a powerful expression. The images dance. Beautifully done.
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this is a wondeful piece. i have read a few of your other as i thought i should
your a great writer. you have a passion that comes through strongly in your pieces!
i totally agree with blatant honesty...
"Such maps do not mention
Namida by name
in the estuaries and salt creeks;
the wrong lane to be in
when the lines are long.
The lives of the rabbits are short
the smile of the fox is gone."
... these are my favourite lines, they totally make the write
Til
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Sad indeed.
How true. Pity Manhattan, Brooklyn, and all of New York for the vitality she lost when her skies went black. Humanity died with the ferry boats, replaced just the same by bumper-to-bumper apathy among city-dwellers, who process unknowing, unfeeling down wire-suspended conveyer belts, oblivious to the kinship that used to flourish far below.
Blow the horn, inch along, and drown with real and natural in the isolated, climate-controlled comfort of a Mercedes-Benz, flooded nostril-high with ever-identical, pre-recorded sentiments sung once upon a time by the voices of absent artists who dreamed of being sold by proxy in $18 denominations.
From sound-proof studio to sterile, Dow-Jones dependent record store, to the 3-year-lease, mass-produced confines of black leather, molded fake wood, GPS navigation, and double-paned glass. Shore-to-shore comeraderie has been paved over in concrete.
No idea who/what Namida is, but I could not agree more: Walt would cry.
~Morgan
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'Scuse me while I chuckle at punctuation "correction" below. hehehe heh h
ahem
I came here from the Bridge list. I need to spend a Lute evening, I see. Wasn't planning to comment until I did, but I rather fell in love with this poem, so I thought I'd just tell you that.
\
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This is a very beautiful poem. Bringing Namida back here is beautiful and your opening stanza makes me teary. Though damn Walt.
You are one of the purest souls I've ever had the privledge of knowing. Your Bridge series is important. It may be mostly lost here truly, but you should not stop this journey. As if you could, I know. Someone told me yesterday this special thing about you, they said:
Lute is a man of the people with dreams above the people.
I'm glad I can be here to share your dream.
(do you want three claps? okay i give you three claps).
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Well, what ever pleases. Sundry poems ... a little bit of this ... little bit of that. Sometimes the lies please more than the tongue that speaks them.
They got milk at the Blue and White Tavern?
Desiree
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lovely old style poem, with whimsy and passion and a flare like a match in a dark alley, to a woman alone passing by, i have known such taverns and sojourns and am better for there being there in that point of my life...great write...Artis
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"Such maps do not mention
Namida by name
in the estuaries and salt creeks;
the wrong lane to be in
when the lines are long.
The lives of the rabbits are short
the smile of the fox is gone."
Wow, this is truley stunning.
I love the imagery of estuaries you mentioned..
how everything flows into one, how the poem flows.
It's really great. -
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Compasses are only good when awry. The poet has no use for maps anyway. I wonder if we might ask the landlord at the blue and white tavern for a lock in.
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Commentary
I liked the images youve portrayed in this piece but the only suggestion I can tell you is that if you're going to keep the flow of a stanza's line going, you chouldn't interrupt it with a punctuation mark otherwise it'll look like a 'speedbump'
Your stanza:
Cry down the sky,
Walt Whitman
cry down the sky,
weep
for the lady beyond the bridge
With her hands upraised: grieve
for the passing of the myth.
Corrected:
Cry down the sky,
Walt Whitman
cry down the sky,
weep for the lady beyond the bridge
With her hands upraised grieve
for the passing of the myth.
Notice how by simply removing that semicolon the flow isn't interrupted. Keep penning -
i just liked it. it sounds like something i would have said. keep writing. most poets write for themselves anyway it seems to me. we publish as an afterthought.
a good work. glad i read it.
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