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| photo internet fair use from lovescylla.com |
Fantasia
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.
ii
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
the tide.
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.
iii
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
13 comments:
The aberrations of the universe have us by the throat ->
not really the universe, but of society. the psychopaths, the sociopaths, the evil and the good intentioned liberals who give EVERYONE the same rights and liberties, even if they are to take advantage of them in the worst ways, have us by the throat.
many good people believe that fighting is bad, even if it means fighting back, and that weakens the ones who are willing to fight.
thanks for your support on my page.
Just gorgeous writing! I love your imagery and use of metaphor--this piece just sings to me--
@AudreyHowitt
Brilliant read thank you x
i feel this is a very personal poem...particularly those last two...using up her own tallow...wishing to be in a new body out...i think it is something many of us can relate to ...and so we write...
So many lines to love...
I especially like :
...waterfalls of starlight and impotence...
and
...the billowing blue elephants of regret...
Fantastic! (and much gratitude for your good eye at my space!)
Jenne- I really like this, especially ii.
http://lkkolp.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/granted-constitutional-rights/
Jenne, yours is another unique and personal voice. Each poem seems to expand on the last broadening the landscape of your personal vision, and casting a look into a universe of possibilities, or possible "others" where each of us can wander and wonder. The preciousness and tenuousness of life is always present in your work. It makes me think.
Definitely a keepr Jenne!
So personal and yet so universal, such vivid images and strong feelings rolling along with your lyrical words. Bless you Jenne! xoxo
Hi Jenne, this is a very sad but glorious poem too. There are many many memorable lines--the grasping roses, the predatory insomnia, the citronella poet, the flying other, the new legs, the traded decrepitude, the Wagnerian aria, the swooping owl, the blue elephants of regret--I'm just going through by my memory (which is not great), the teeny hands of leaves and topaz nectar--
Of course, it also adds up to a greater whole, but there are such wonderful building blocks there in your images. K.
Agh, Jenne, I left a comment that did not take. I'm having a great deal of trouble with commenting lately.
A beautiful heartfelt poem--so many memorable images adding up to the whole-- I had made a whole list--blue elephants, regret, citronella candle poet, grasping leaves of rose, Wagner, legs, predatory insomnia==this is just a part of list as now I must rush. Wonderful, hope this takes. K.
Dear Jenne,
I'm having such problems commenting from my home computer that a little worried my comment didn't "take". A lovely poem, with so many great images--I have listed the ones that stuck with me a few times! The blue elephants of regret, the predatory insomnia, the grasping roses, the Wagner aria, the legs, the Citronella poet--terribly sad, of course, but inspiring--the song palpable. k.
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