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The Long i









oft back,
the hand prods
the close packed earth
to rip out the light,
a reed to pierce the splintered sky--

the cold flank of the mountain exposed
bare save that the ice prisms

light; and that too bright to see,
trees which exceed their height
and stab the swollen sky
the muzzle of imperfection denies this scheme,

another bee lost in the rushes,
left to run fingers over the carved catacombs
the unturned loam of other offenses,

be it less, or more so
the smoke rises from torches
eases into cracks
moans tar ridden
from dawn to ruin
the light riding the river from one day to the next.

A son to father rives the ancient brew
kicks absently at stones.
            Unstill soul
random vexed
imprisoned in flesh
the foul pleasantry of subsistence upset

unto an uneasy symmetry
of mirror into mirror into mirror
until light meets and blazes forth,

perhaps in that, the hand touches. 




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  • cvillelisa
    March 12

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    The first three stanzas are so startling in their imagery for me, I'm having difficulty moving past them to the rest of the poem.

    Something about that rip of light -- yikes. I will steal that and save it for when you've forgotten you wrote it.

    And the flank of mountain is great - and sort of Asian-art like. And also, muzzle another good poem word I have pocketed.

    So you see? You've drawn me in here. I thought for a time that the opening should be the "A son to father.." stanza I'm not sure why

    but it is very -- very -- evolutionary this. That beginning is all -- beginning-like just dirt and plant and sun and sky -- sorta Genesis-y.

    Then it is quickly interrupted by the torches which indicate humankind -- sort of like a piercing open history from Now this poem -- kind of peeling back now (while still being in Now) to be able to see History and still be in history. Does that make ANY sense at all? Lottsa times your poems do that but I probably should have just said "everywhen" but it feels like a peeling back this...



    and this:

    A son to father rives the ancient brew
    kicks absently at stones.
    Unstill soul
    random vexed
    imprisoned in flesh
    the foul pleasantry of subsistence upset

    unto an uneasy symmetry
    of mirror into mirror into mirror

    seems to be sort of the echo of mankind from the beginning of the discovery of "i" till now

    a restlessness -- there. Unstill soul and kicking stones. You really do "show" so effing goodly.



    until light meets and blazes forth,

    perhaps in that, the hand touches.

    mmmm. I'm left wondering about these last lines. I'm not sure if they represent the continuation or ... death... I shall ponder some more.




    This poem, for me, gets at the subject you are chasing in your previous poem, with more verve and muscle. I know I know. The other must be written and must be considered in the forming of the tapestry. I shall read it again now and see if I can work backwards.


    Good poem.




  • Cannonsfire
    March 11

    Edit | Reply
    I am not sure, but then again I never am when it comes to your poems lol...but the sense of a strained space between two people, it isn't love and it should be respect at least but that's not there either. It's almost an uneasy truth, reaching out to take a step that has hovered forever. Maybe the hardest part of the poem is indeed the very last line. C