someone should mention
how it burns
between morning and decay.
We scrape the laurel
we see it bleed
but cannot hear its scream,
which we in haste sweep by;
if, in brief,
we should distract a lover
with a feather’s touch
mourn
and leave to the mouth of the word
dying on mother’s lips
the breath of wind
that dries the wound
and binds the disorder
of those distracted fingers
careless in their distant muse,
an arc in the pavement
that tilts once gay plumage
into the underworld
too swiftly for the feast to be enjoyed-
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I remember going really really red and blushy in some class where a boy I liked read out the Shakespeare lyric about the wind blowing and blowing and Shakey describes the breath as "rude". Later there is stuff about water warping and something stinging I think. First I thought breath with wind in your poem was lazy lazy lazy but no - it's not - it would be without the wound that needs drying but that wound needing to dry needs it to be breath so the metaphor renews itself. It's ancient but the way you aligned it makes it all new again. Bloody smashing poem it is. It's the kind of poom which is working very bloody hard but not in any noticeable way - like those bastards who can run fast and not sweat and go puffy and they still look beautiful you know?
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Yesterday I was driving home from the store and I decided to drive the ocean route -- over a bridge that crosses a waterway was twilight or thereabouts. It was high tide - a flood tide nearly due to the big moon and the sky was this color -- blush I guess you'd call it and there were these wisps of darker pink and the reflection on the flooded marsh made the water look pink and there was marsh grass barely peaking out of the surface
and the scene made me feel inconsequential and it was so Big and beyond what these small words are and I was alone but wanted to share what I saw with someone
with someone who might see and feel what I did
but there wasn't anyone there and I don't really know if anyone would have even felt that same thing I did.
this poem sorta reminds me of that experience.
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poetry is written alone
I have the vague impression that people are not designed to live in large groups
maybe a pair would have noticed... a group of poets would have argued on copyrights about who noticed it first... a corporate crowd would have munched on popcorn and added beer cans to the landscape...
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yea it absolutely is -- but then there is, this, I guess it is that desire, that thing inside that drives trying to connect to others - the reason to put the poem to paper to put it "out there" in hopes of connecting
- but yeah it is a solitary sport and yet the poem only wants what? some type of acceptance.
pretty much a metaphor for human beings i guess. -
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I think therefore I exist but I share to prove myself I am
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yeah. boy i wasn't sure what that unbelievably, for the sake of a better word, beautiful scene was telling me about me. but man -- it was scary beautiful. i was going to turn around and sit there and look at it again but almost felt too *insert some word i don't know what it is*
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for sure what you didn't felt was: "I want to keep it all for myself"
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it was spectacular.
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but you only wrote a 'comment' about it
in someone else's space
someone you'd knew would appreciate it
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I notice the discussion re the 'we' thing...I like that part, in fact instead of it being irritating I find it sort of reinforces that passage as something centering to the rest of the piece, like it has emphasis on it. It still flows as you read it so leave the irritant alone. The line I tripped over was 'and leave to the mouth of the word' Perhaps it is my teeth
too many 'th's lol...but as per usual the images you choose to show us are wonderful. C
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god, I like your author note
I don't think you need that which is understood through it (to use the mystic way of speaking)
I think you need to play some more
here's some idea: try to rewrite the whole poem
in the worse cliched way possible
see if you can
see if you can break through the self build filter of good taste
like time does with ages: genuine degenerating into baroque
like history reinvents itself in the rhythmic hips movement touching moral extremes from puritanism to porn
from slaughter to forgiveness
there is no bad taste really
there is only agriculture and sport
nature and industry
and in between lies
the whore
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Hmmm. I like this. My only criticism would be the number of "we" s in these lines;
"We scrape the laurel
we see it bleed
but cannot hear its scream,
which we in haste sweep by;
if, in brief,
we should distract a lover"I wonder if all of them are necessary? Other than that small personal nit, lol, I liked this. Especially the ending. Very fine work, as usual. :f
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Sometimes, an irritant is neccesary--It's like, very rarely does a hammer drive the nail all the way home in one blow--
but yes of course a wrong blow will at times bend the nail, the decision thereafter is rather to be creative in one's blows, or to pull the nail and insert a new one in the hole. The important thing is to manage to miss clobbering one's own thumb in the meantime, something which all in all I have never managed to learn.
Thanks!
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love your metaphor! lol.
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