Put the bitch in the obituary
a death in the Languedoc
charred stake littered by ash.
the violence of the violin peeled,
and then silence
as though it were a rape
a seance where the sharp nosed crone
was a con, prophesied
a death at sea--
cantileveredtimegrinds
stone against sand, the god leans.
who offers it up? Cain with a limp?
Murder would be impressed
upon the after image
the dead body shoveled
into the burlap sack
and carted to an uneasy repose.
Author notes
part V. Conclusion, Gunblossom Elegies.
In a list
A contest entry
- sin by ArtFullyMe.
2200 points, ended July 20, 2008, 14 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 16 of 16
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You always leave me to ponder, and you leave me with a bit of homework to get out. After my research was done, I came back to relish in the thoughts so finely pressed here.
"a seance where the sharp nosed crone
was a con, prophesied
a death at sea--"
I stopped here to contemplate on my first, second, and third read.
CONGRATULATIONS on earning the Gold Cup. Well worth the weaving!
Much Love ♥
Renee
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One of the most wonderful things about your work is that it forces me to search, so I can come back ..with a better grasp on ...what you include.
I had to search Languedoc, and then found myself wandering through other places, rich ones I might add.
Excellent..
my favorite line:
stone against sand, the god leans.
indeed,
in so many directions it can mangle the mind.
thank you... so very much for your entry.
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superb poetry
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"the violence of the violin peeled,
and then silence
as though it were a rape"
I followed Mary's suggestion, too. Although we don't really "know" each other, I felt compelled to add it to my list of beautiful words. I hope you don't mind. What pieces I've read by you are incredible. I've been writing for 35 years & pennings like this give me pause, too, as Kathleen said...but therein lies inspiration, the yearning to evolve & grow as a writer. AP has done that for me these past 4 years; I'm more creative than ever before, learning from all of these amazing talents on display here. In its entirety, this is such a magnificent poem. Individual portions of it stand out on their own, such as the one above; it could easily be a "little poem", all by itself. You are an intuitive sculptor of words & images, Scribe. Your gift is undeniable. Good luck in Liza's contest. 
Wanda
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Mary told me to come read this after i commented on hers, and Guy's poem, said this was the one to beat. Damn this is good. Definitely re-thinking my reasons for why I keep trying my hand at this. Excellent work, my friend.
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you know i had this evil laugh/grin at the first line and continued to love the rest of this one!
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the final stanza is gold
the rest just shows off how amazing you are when you are amazing.
damn-
m
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see? that last stanza
it is happening.
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sin squeezes the best ethics outta ya
would you like an apple?
there's nothing more ethic than poetry
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"Every time that a great event happens in history, we expect to see "men changed" - morally of course. But so long as men have stomachs and sexual organs, which may be for a long time yet, they will not change. The drama has as its function to reveal, for a lifetime or for a century, to some men, sometimes to whole peoples, the depths of the lyric universe, and the frightful heroism of their hopeless destiny. It creates the poet. That is all. And the whole of history does not unfold itself, according to my opinion, except as the work of a poet or as the life of a powerfully imaginative man, in successive crises of life, divided by or or less feverish states of repose, in which criticism and dissociation succeed to concentration and creative enthusiasm to prepare for another leap toward the reconquered illusion.
When one knows and feels and believes, this suffering does not matter. It is the fatal passage from one to joy to another. To justify the cruelty of amorous courtship and the laceration of the maternal belly, it suffices that a child should be born. It suffices that a poem should leap from the heart of the artist in order to justify the moral tortures which his thirst for the absolute imposes upon him, and which it inflicts on those who are about him. It suffices that a lyric world should leap from the breast of a great people to justify the carnage war or the fury of a revolution. Whoever consents to this is free. He who does not consent is a slave. Humanity will never, doubtless, cease to revolve in that tragic circle of which it cannot admit that necessity without failing in the eyes of the just man who imagines himself as leading it on, nor can humanity deny the same necessity without the risk of falling into habit and weariness. Every step in advance is provoked by poets, whose work suffices in order to show the love of order, harmony and peace .... and that which stirs up the poet is precisely order, massacre, chaos.
Let the human organism, then, overshadow the long movement of History! Let humanity know well that it does not conquer its true reality, except in the rare hours of its march in which, in a blinding flash of consciousness it has the force to smile at its own terrible destiny. Nothing is serious. Everything is tragic. But there in resides all our grandeur.
--- From the Dance over Fire and Water, Eli Faure, 1926
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Down the bottom of the page it says
"Sechuan Earthquake" which
sounds a bit like a dish
at one of my favourite restaurants.
I can't believe I'm commenting - if that's what I'm doing - because I seem to have quit that practice.
I was thinking about you this evening, as I was near the end of my commute, at eight o'clock or so, having spent extra time at school trying to clear stuff off the list. I was thinking about how you write so much and how, when you write so much, there is no chance but to become good, presuming you know what good is. You're good. Not always to my taste, but good. (This one is to my taste, by the way.) I am much too lazy, or perhaps too distracted by other things, to become good.
However, the real reason I'm commenting, since I'm sure you're not in need of empty compliments, is to fix the spelling of Languedoc. Not a q. The translation is "language of the west," and, you know, it really is a distinct language, in the Toulouse area of France. I was there, staying with someone who was Languedoc. The accent in French was different, the street signs, not French. There's a poem in that, should anyone care to explore.
Three clappies for the Lute Man.
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your poem shows that the death of poetry is a premature pronouncement. I really like this one!
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this is fucking fantastic
"Cain with a limp"... damn!
so many wonderfully clever turns of a phrase here, all that I can say is bravo...
al
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Well no.
I don't really like it. Not at all. Of course because it is right being all wrong and all. But I'm not sure I believe it
or better
I don't want to believe it but it might be true and that unknowing is the best/worst thing about this poem.
Lisa
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i am all but dead but not out, and as Bukowksi said, i bet you write little poems too..
fucking A star poetry.. sinful and repaste of the bachhanalian gods..
juicy and dead...
yep
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You make my head hurt you know!? I started to read this and got caught by the French name of the province and then I began to think, too obvious and then I thought Dante used the name in his works and thought..yes that's more what you would have referred it to. Then after an interminably long time on the first stanza I finally got to the rest of it. Dante spoke of temptation as a sin, you speak of Cain with a limp...imperfect and his brother Abel being the pure one was murdered by him. He had a choice, we all have choices to sin or not. It's the guilt we live with and an uneasy repose is not for the murdered but for the one left to bear the burden. Love, C
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