Misericordia
Lent
has stilled the bell tongues of the town
Save
for the burnished carillon of the Catholics
Tolling
the hour to the courthouse.
But
think not of the dark-robed there
Meting
out a facsimile of justice.
Think
of the choirs of impious geese
Driven
by the unseen to open water
After
hours on the flight-path
Over
the Continental Divide.
The
earth wakes and cares not
Whether
the Penitentes
Erect
timber crosses in the Jemez.
The
waters will swell and course
And
the body will surge and sing, burn
And
desire. The soul dies
If
we are silenced, made to feel
We
cannot speak, should not name
What
is seen with our very own eyes.
Mine eyes have seen the glory
of
The
Big Dipper every night, pouring
Milk
over the fields, that Canis Major
Burns
on, glazing the mares’ backs
With
frozen light. Someone is turning
Over
the earth with a great fork
So
that air, sun and water come to it
To
soften, split and raise the seed.
Mozart
tried to finish his requiem
In
whispers that could not be
Deciphered. He shut himself away
To
hear the callings he wrote down
In
a rain of black notes on parchment.
He
couldn’t stop or silence himself.
Whitman
the same, writing A woman
Waits
for me, of waiting and surging,
Manly
love and we, we women
Are
the takers and keepers
Of
the seminal milk--
But
we seek diligent assuagement
patience, rapture,
from
the lover’s hands, mouth.
ii
I
need you. I hunger for you.
As
it is Lent, I confess
that
I have often terrified myself away
From
being filled, released
To
my own torrent.
Here
then is a sundered dream:
The
priest proffers
The
Host to me and I open his robe
And
take the bread of love into my mouth.
He
goes down on his knees, spilling forth
The
incarnate.
Later
he finds me and spares me nothing,
With
his circling tongue
And
probing fingers.
I
am the bread of life, he says;
She
who comes to me will not hunger.
But
broken promises—that we will no longer
Make
war, that we will be changed, rage on
Like
the taffeta robes of the sunset
Even
when the sagacious geese that ascend
And
call to each other mate in mid-air
In
a wanton refueling,
And
all the unseen things writhe together
In
the dark privacy of the waking brown grass,
And
the slugs make their luminous orchid
From
the intertwining and strange
elongated
glands
That
then burst,
So
that each falls to the grass, spent.
c
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copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2012
10 comments:
Striking imagery (especially those last five lines) in a multi-leveled, deeply thought-provoking poem that bears more than a single reading.
The earth wakes and cares not
Whether the Penitentes
Erect timber crosses in the Jemez
nice. i like that acknowledgement...i also like the great turning of the fork as well in that first part jenne...
that is some dream there in that second part...some interesting intimacy there...
Forgive me, but when you opened that robe, this came to me:
You don't give
an inch
but you take
a lot of them
May I also add that that moment was sac religious.
Lovely imagery...beautifully penned.
Whoa! A very torrid poem! I can feel surrealism and naturalism - Dali and Courbet and Caravaggio and I don't know--how about a little Audubon or Eakins? But all turned into women, of course.
I am joking - it is a very cool poem. I am a bit tired to comment coherently, but was impressed and moved! K.
Jenne, whether I like it or not, your images and words always draw me in at the start and pull me through to the end. Wow.
You are at full powers here, exploring alliterative technique with the bells, flowing into the cadence of an ode, mixing the sacred and the profane into a feast for the tongue that tests the line between blasphemy and transcendence.
Thank you for all of these perspicacious and salient comments, dear writing friends/fellow poets. I have no idea where I thought I was headed with this but I was first turned on to-- and then by-- those mating slugs by William Pitt Root, editor par excellence of Cutthroat..I am ever running behind these days but will find you...xxxj .
Simply and irrevocably beautifully crafted and spun into bones that found the courage to pen the words. Your words rise from the screen and soak the night like a soft torrent of rain that will nurture wild flowers in the morning sun.
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