Saturday, August 25, 2012

August poem

Sharing this poem which will appear in my forthcoming collection Gods of Water and Air. I'm not entirely sure from which publisher it will be forthcoming, as I've had some publishing mishaps you can read about earlier in this blog. But it will forthcome. Here's a poem that originally appeared in Pilgrimage:


Anvil of Light


In a forgotten valley studded with runic oaks,
            at mid-August, on an anvil of light
            my breath and two swallows rise and fall.

Nearing to the remembered place,
            a wail of distant insects
            riffles the distance like notes in a weird scale.
            Solitude comes to an intersection

And a figure-eight of melody
            startles up out of the grass.
Involuntary, this godward thing called praise.
            It lights on a weed tip
            and its wings radiate out.

The wind’s tides roll through dry weeds, on and on,
            a Greek chorus of Why, Why, Why.
A mockingbird's tail flicks.
            The silent ring of the lupine bells.

Still, I don’t know where I am
            until I watch a pencil-tick
crawl up a poppy's thigh
and black-spotted wings sprout

from my back. I flap away
            to a dry height from which I can see
            the question’s shape. Here
            is really nowhere. Are you nowhere too?

How can anyone ever trap matter in words?
Or ever make ideas as apple-fine as this air?


1 comment:

  1. Anonymous8:41 AM

    I think I lost my comment. Here goes again: Praise is quickly forgotten by the people who praise. They never want to see a real me because their praise is only relevant as long as they can keep the praise going. When what they praise is gone one is left trapped-not wanting to admit a deeper truth and not wanting to dissapoint. My whole life was built on praise by others. That is why I chose solitude to live my life. I was tired of people asking me what am I doing. Your poem made me think so deeply about praise.

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