She went to sing acclamations
to the virgin of birth
who carried around the world the god
of heaven. Through the streams of red stone
she went to sing
with her hair undone.
Her hands warm as sunlight.
Her unspoken beckoning flesh. The fires
and feast of December, which examines
the dark mysteries of the blood.
A flow of people watching.
The black stone of Dushara carried
as a small heart, spreads like infancy. The people cry
at its dark bracelet of sin, and the husband
asks the wife "More than any gem, this one
this one will cleanse?" and she smiles
at his large-fisted shame. And nods. "I've looked at you,"
she says, "and see the mother."
Her voice rounded itself
in the odyssey of Petra, rounded itself
and lay like cloaks on the shoulders of men, and craddled
the body of her deepest faith
at the fire.
"Chaabou! Chaabou!
Your virgin
inexhaustable
spring" and she carries the earth
with her call, watched the static of flame
grow big as the sky.
A contest entry
- Petra -- that "rose-red city half as old as time" by ea.
600 points, ended August 28, 2007, 15 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Wow, I love this! "Her voice rounded itself..." wonderful stanza. "Chabou! Chabou! Your virgin inexhaustable spring" is pure genius. This is only my first read but I can tell you, I am more than pleased.
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I'm glad. I hadn't expected this one to prompt a series, but here you have it, which I'm happy to share. Thanks for the opportunity.
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