every single poem has a soul
wearing us, like childish carving
on old bark
bark that hums, not touching,
quiver-leaves shedding off language
so soul can dance
that is poetry of the soul; that sacrifice
so damned beautiful it hurts
branches, broken off in ragged bits
weep in such slow dirge-rhythm
that to touch it stains us forever
what we have done to such literature
is such greed
this blank paper I slather with words
is my grandmother’s soul
I am trying to re-interpret
we lose so much in translation
when towers of babble are taken down
so we can write another quickly forgotten piece
of our selfish hearts on her skin, on her very bones
listen, she speaks beneath this wounding
Author notes
my own photo of one of my altars
In a list
- Beautiful Words by Beautiful People I Know • next in list
- Gold Poetry • next in list
- Writing About Writing • next in list
A contest entry
- Free Verse Only by Diminished Capacity.
1075 points, ended November 29, 2009, 10 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Wow, this is absolutely stellar. You have done absolutely wonderful with this piece. Thank you so much for entering.
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ty so much for your comment and for the gold....
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Please accept my wow. This is such a tender look at the words that drip from our pens. I think you capture the tendency for us to bleed who we truly are, which is also those who came before us seeping into the present.
Very nicely done and thought provoking. -
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exactly ...I am so glad you caught that...my voice is a chorus!
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wonderful, and the wounding is no less dear but somehow more to be forgiven when we make a marvelous testament such as this to things of value...human values that bring peace and fulfillment, respect for others and the world around us; take no more than is needed, and waste nothing, So this a wounding with a purpose i think..excellent...PK
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ty pk. I have stopped printing out all my poems and have begun to put them directly into folders and on to cds. I was profuse...am profuse.. and I was so guilty!
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I have always loved trees beyond reasoning, even before I began to write, and to realize the sacrifices they make for us all - especially as paper is made from their leavings for us to scrawl our many words upon them. This is such a lovely tribute, as is the photograph of your altar, Sweetie. Good luck in the contest, my Friend. 
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That was the sweat altar this year. I have bundled it up and put it away until we have our winter sweat, here soon.. once the thunder stops. ty gf, as always
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