|photo internet fair use from lovescylla.com|
The American West figures strongly in Andrews' oeuvre and gives rise to her most lyrical work. Her first collection of poetry in thirty years, Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
New Poem: Fantasia, Posting for DVerse OLN and Beyond...
No one had ever seen such grief and terror;
she fled the shadows of day as if she were leaping
ice floe to ice floe—could they not see
the great owls with extended claws following her,
The colossal winging griffins of shame,
the billowing blue elephants of regret,
the hounds of failure all with their
hot, rancid breath?
And her predatory insomnia—no one had ever seen
such sleeplessness-- someone sitting upright
in the withered gardens the night long,
listening for footfalls on the perimeter.
Have you seen the great and gaping roses,
how they gasp for air like wounds,
the tiny clutching hand of their leaves,
their oozing topaz nectar?
The aberrations of the universe have us
by the throat, waterfalls of starlight and impotence
of all the clock-towers, the port city crumbling
at last, after centuries of its feet webbing
the salt-laved rock;
Despite all petition, the inhabitants of
le bonne village devolving into the deep.
What is to become of the poet?
She loves the soporifics of transport:
out of the body and into the sea light,
the shooting stars over the villas rocking
in their niches in the cliff.
She loves the legend, the music
She mercilessly drives herself;
she cooks she sings she paints,
she writes and writes,
she never sleeps.
She is a hardware store candle
infused with citronella, hardy
spending herself, using up
her own rivulets of tallow,
her white flame keening in the dark.
What is to become of the one
she wanted to be; out there
you can see her sailing, outfitted
with a new body.
She left the other behind
in a trade of opium for pounds of flesh.
She shed her decrepitude,
strapped on her new legs, striding
out fathom on fathom.
It is true that madness is a tidal thing
ebbing and flowing and the tinnitus
of the damned on the edge of sleep,
the echo of litanies of mercy,
The flawed sleep that is like falling,
flailing in air veering away
from the rock face,
the cord snapping: oh martyrs
who falls on his sword for her?
Over and over she does this for herself,
sheds grief’s robe like a falcon
his hood, and with her Wagnerian
battle cry, takes to the air.
When and if you have time please check out my review of Cary Waterman's Book of Fire live at Loquaciously Yours...many thanks. xxj
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012