...that sang that sang
the war clad angels that gathered
in the glade to clean the mortal
from their blade
a morn full of aubade,
in the garret on the scattered papers, another
stranger in tattered clothes-stained stinking,
in his verses he always spoke of the sky, and love and the stars
in the rooms below a man screamed at his ancient mother
the pipes churned restlessly
after a time there were only sobs
and the sound of the church bells from across the street,
ringing merrily, inviting the faithful to the feast
where the sheep were shorn. Tell me what to do, o Lord
when lying prophets rise, aubade indeed
these stormy skies filling with angry angels
igniting the last revelation of the word
with flaming swords. soft soft soft--
they speak of endings but not death, failings
in the cruel light, a mother who sought solace
with her last few coins, and when the stranger’s lover
called in the gaunt dawn
he was found in the corner with bound eyes
and all his poems were gone.
In a list
A contest entry
- The Next Big Thing by Nicole Hanna.
18000 points, ended December 20, 2007, 22 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 18 of 18
-
Love this.
-
Wow. You tell a beautiful and captivating story with your words. I really do love this. Congratulations on the silver
-
wonderful poetry...
m
-
Congrats on your Silver.
-
Gave me the shivers. Wait.. perhaps I should clarify, because around these AP parts, that could mean really bad things (vomit makes me shiver too, ya know). So... on that note, this makes me shiver in very very good ways. Powerful final lines. No need to say more than that, except thanks for entering. I needed this today.
-
I started reading works here randomly and was impressed by the vast lack of poetry to be found. Most of the time I just skip ahead because I don’t know how to saw “Please saw off both your hands before you pick up a pen or approach another keyboard” in a kindly and supportive way.
For what it is worth, this is the third poem I have read after wading through a lot of dross.
Do you know what “The Bridge” did to Hart Crane? Or maybe it was that painter lady Peggy? I have always thought it ironic that his father invented “Life Saver” candy.
There is a lot of irony in this piece as I read it as well.
Of course the title alone “garret” sets that tone. I don’t know if the numerical pun is intentional or not, but I like “poem for the garret”
“Morn full of aubade” has a delightful near tautology
“pipes churned restlessly” is a superb aural image.
There is lovely music here as well “skies” “rise” my favorite though is “gaunt dawn”
The poem’s essential sense of place has a hyper-reality that as usual in such instances raises the particular and specific to the evocative and epic.
Pure poetry like what you are writing here (by “pure poetry” I am thinking of Blake, Pound, and Crane) resides underneath the language which is vital and the visible current, but the poem does not reside in the current (or currency) of language, but rather in the hydrological forces that drive the currents.
The closing lines are perfect because Homer, Teiresias, and Milton, all were true prophets with bound eyes. Teiresias especially was condemned to tell nothing but the truth, which I think is the poet’s real curse and not any of the outward symptomatic lesions of the disease that are readily apparent to the eye.
Those lines then require a return to the central stanzas of false prophecy, the lying prophets and their so easily shorn sheep. Here I think is where the primal currents of the poem exist; the energies between the poetical truth and the false prophecies of a culture.
I have only been reading for a relatively short while but this is by far the best thing I have read so far.
A. W.
-
To Shock my eyes
with deeper text than snow and wake me from steepled reveries in the mirrors that we worship so
and set those moistened orbs aglow with ethereal notions.
THIS IS NOT THE SAME TIRED CRAP!
Bravo
-
lost
very nice take on this one . . like the descriptions and the sense of loss or poverty and death . . also like "to clean the mortal from their blade" and "igniting the last revelation of the word" . good ending as well . .
-
A thoughtful aubade serenading us with deep ideas and feelings, the whole is pervaded by a sadness that is inevitable, the drama unfolds to a fateful, predestined conclusion.
-
nice poem.!!
It was a very faluting
My eyes shimmer with gladness
Everytime I read a song
A poem of poets where I belong..
Ilove the lines "...that sang that sang
the war clad angels that gathered
in the glade to clean the mortal
from their blade
a morn full of aubade,"... 
-
Such a sad piece.You express yourself and what you want to portray so well.Your usage of the words that you chose to express what you wanted to say is perfect.I think all people fear losing the words they expressed for others to read and to have carried on.The fear of failing hits everyone on earth.We all struggle with it.I enjoyed this piece immensely.You are a very talanted writer.Good luck in this contest.
-
Liked the alliteration in these lines; the flow and the visuals one sees when reading these words. Sounds as if you have written three before this maybe along the same theme or train of thought. Makes one think about humanity and where we are heading, ot have we already gone to far to recover?
-
wow! a loving and yet potient poem. i can see why u promoted this one... tis beautiful... and yet sad. the last line struck me.. all i want to b left of me when im gone is my poems. they arent good but they r me. as urs are too by the looks. keep it up... a brilliant write,
hugs,
georgie,
xxx -
A beautiful poem. The expression and emotion jumps out at you and demands to be experienced. Fantastic. Good luck in the contest, although I dont think you need it.
-
There is so much to take with this piece. I felt like I was running while reading this work, but being pulled in so many emotional directions. I feel angry and sad all in one fell swoop. You have given so much with this exploration poem, one will question over and over again. Best of luck in this contest.
-
Oh my...this is an intelligent work of poetry. I usually comment on featured poems because that's how I began on AP (not long ago). This one has me sitting here reading over and over, pondering, relating with my higher-self, and inner-child of inquisitiveness.
Your first stanza allows the reader to fully use our sense of hearing. I hear "that sang, that sang"... I also love the sight of the "war clad angels". What a powerful image that one is. Love how you ended this stanza too.
"another
stranger in tattered clothes-stained stinking,"
There you go again with stunning imagery, and a heightened sensory perception.
Your last stanza is very spiritual, it speaks of the last book in the bible, and the pending doom for some, which relates right back to the opening stanza but with a twist;
"and all his poems were gone"
Your work is priceless poet. I am glad I clicked here. Good luck in your contest.
Candice
-
A complex poem well worth exploring
Hello Lute, this poem contains lots of images to think on carefully and seriously. It is more of the classical style of earlier centuries and the reader needs to look below the surface of the verses for the true meanings.
The style is unusual in that it has no capitals, no pauses apart from the division into three verses and is mainly punctuated by a series of commas. This gives the impression of a pouring out of image upon image, faster and faster as the tension builds up, conveying deeply felt emotions, probably pain, bitterness cynicism, even perhaps a lack of hope or despair?
There seems to be a series of contrasts throughout the events described which are given greater meaning by your use of many emotive adjectives to enhance your images.
The first verse speaks of angels. The word glade gives a sense of peace and "aubade"..... a heavenly song or poem to greet the morn, which we would expect to be sweet or joyous. But the contrast is, that the angels are war clad and the description of them cleaning their blades (of metaphorical blood?) suggests perhaps that they bring violence and death. Could you be saying that religious dogma can or does slay the spirits of mortals? Religion promises so much yet the reality of life on earth is dire.
In the second verse, the poet speaks of lofty idealised things...." sky,love and the stars" yet he appears to be living in poverty in a tiny garret at the top of a house where others live below him in equal poverty. His verses are in contrast to the sordid reality of despair among his fellow dwellers, the relentless churning of the pipes accompanying the misery of their lives.
In the third verse You have the contrast of the church bells ringing merrily inviting the faithful to the feast....all emotive images of "mother church" but sheep were shorn for the feast.
I feel your cynicism and pain as well in this verse, as you describe the contrast of the soft words and the aubade to the reality of wars and death, the lying prophets who try con us into acceptance. I wondered if you wwere thinking of the apocalypse here?
The threats of organised religion's images of hell for all eternity for those of us who fail? Yet we all fail for if we believe in a God who made us, He made us as flawed beings.
Your last few lines emphasise the struggles of humanity and the lack of love which exists in our world. Would the theft of the poet in the garret's verses, all he had of any value, to him anyway, signify the theft of all that aspires to be good and true in this world?
I feel this is an excellent, intensely personal work by someone who thinks deeply on very big questions of life. Thank you for the priviledge of reading it. It has given me lots to think about too.
korculablue
-
You are a bit tricksey.
These poems are, as the picture unfolds before my eyes, I think are mostly about the scam of organized religion. False prophets. Televangelists. And here, the poet artist who seeks to uncover the deceit. Both an ancient and very present situation.
Though because you don't write in the popular (easy to read) confessional style, one has to really pick the threads a bit to get to that. And as you know from years of my Lute reading practice, I'm a picker.
The sheep shorn - the f**cked congregation who have probably given the lying prophet their Christmas bonuses in hopes of hitching a better, faster, ride to heaven. The poet who writes of the lies shut up and shut down.
Course I could be all wrong too but that is where these threads are leading me.
They are getting better, though you must know, will probably not reach mass popularity here. Probably because we are sometimes a bit afraid of things that have an uncomfortable spiritual bent that require some examination of self and admitting we don't Know squat. Me?
I prefer to the gray areas so therefore I've always found a place for myself to nuzzle inside your poems and hang out scratching my head and thinking for a bit. I know it is never enough for a poet who wants to be Understood or at least Read
one person offering their appreciation for their work but hey, me is all I got to offer.
Oh right. Good luck in the contest.
P.S. Find place, send out series.
Adding your comment:
1 - 18 of 18
