As by the grace of a lifetime’s narrowed sight
Perseus knelt upon the blooming sphere
with the regularity of urbanity’s fuzzy light
unbroken by the drum of earthly years
He froze the night by medusa’s head
that the meteoric arrow rain
might stand upon its mirror’s bed
mutely dancing through its clouded grain—
Rising, ever rising, amidst its dying garden
a thousand years to whither, but never yet the mystery
of what should grant his writers’ pardon
for a thousand years of repetitious history.
Mercurial flock—
bamboo flutes nosing out
every goosing
outline of a wound
through Decembrist twilights;
only trailing
shadows realize the direction
wild threads
wove across the pitch
before night unraveled.
Coyote tears
on dusted blacktop lanes
whoso is a man could hears
paw prints passing through the plains
but silence is that fallen branch
out of sight and out of mind
so long as night comes not to our own ranch
sunken celestials will not bind–
not in heart,
no, and certainly not for sake of art…
Flames of her passing
stream the silence between
breathless twines of human grace,
the air, her plane–the smooth fall
among the flesh,
a look to pin the longing touch,
thirst for the flight they cannot share.
Merely human, cries the hush
of lights along her occupation–
no remedy for the pale drip
her candle set upon the choir.
Night lies in the dismount.
Words describe
Daffodil rain—
nothing.
Rainer Maria Rilke. Image care of Wikimedia Commons.
This week, it’s time to celebrate a little poetic brand of Oktoberfest with one of Germany’s most famous poetic sons – Rainer Maria Rilke and his poem: “Archaic Torso of Apollo.” A cerebral piece, built of similes and entrancing image, it is one work that guides you crisply along to an altogether potent ending. It showcases Rilke’s true power and status as one of the foremost poets of the late 19th century, and of the German language in its entirety.
Archaic Torso of Apollo
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
~Rainer Maria Rilke
You'll see the imagery-relevance of this soon enough. Image by: Chris Galford.
In keeping with the Den’s theme of travel this week (see previous post for update on that little number, mind you), what few free moments I found today were spent typing up this little number for you folks. Wanted to capture a sense of depart-wait a second! What am I doing, giving away the meanings? That’s for you people to figure out after all – don’t know if I did well, if I just give all the secrets away.
Even so, I think it needs a little touch of work still (and yes, I know I get snipped at by folks for saying that any time I do it on here…but nonetheless!), but that’s the beauty of the blogosphere – so many wonderful minds out there, ready to give and to take, critique, grow, and flourish in the presence of their fellow creative community members. Some silly people believe that if you aren’t content with it, it should be hidden away, kept from public eye until you are…to keep one’s self-opinions and dignity high I suppose. Personally, I like the reality check – and if it’s bad, goodness, shouldn’t a writer wish to know? So as ever…critique welcome!
Consequently, if you haven’t, (and particularly if you’re not wandering in here from D’Verse Poetry), you should give this wonderful community a look. Lovely site, lots of great people about – and if you’re at all familiar with One Stop Poetry, you’ll find lots of familiar faces there.
Now Boarding
The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.
Bare feet upon the tiled trail,
smooth lines catch the dirt,
end in mountains under
Phrygian skies
where words give to mudslides
of heart; no sneakers
will bear them there.
It was the shoes they left behind.
When worlds light by tails
there’s no room left to fill,
the memories move like clockwork –
bodies remain,
lost along the long roads
rendered Silken; eyes open
to coal bell rings.
No one speaks of the bill till it’s due.
They always say to breathe–
she prays that he will breathe.
Across the prairie roams old
Model T
beating out the departure chords,
soot-lined; black worlds
always greet the young.
The yellow dress sits at the bedside table.
She would take his hand,
tell him blisters fade with time,
that their shoes will find him still
in Requiem
somewhere beyond that grey road
they wait; clock ticks
as she offers him the keys.
She woke before me,
straining her brush through aurora strands,
smiling at the pale gown
reflected in the blue-green mirror.
When she stretches,
pink melon breasts exposed at the nipple
collect prism dew, drowning
in the throb of rehydrated crystal needles.
The vapors of her perfume are scentless,
senselessly caressing the rivers of her eyes
like butterfly winds—fluttering out
from east to west; an oriental song.
But the lantern burns—
by night she is radiantly departed:
she lays her head in my lap
and the mascara runs in shadows down my leg.
*Out of season by the title, I know, but I hope you’ve all enjoyed the cool touch of this one all the same…my contribution to what may well be the last, or one of the last One Shot Wednesdays at One Stop Poetry. It has been an honor and a pleasure, everyone. I look forward to visiting you all outside of the linkies though, and to continue basking in your poetry as time rolls on.
I wanted something suitably nature-oriented for this special One Shot Wednesday – since the party begins on Tuesday, after all, and this Tuesday is the summer solstice, the longest and (hopefully) most beautiful of days. My inspiration seemed cut off by grey clouds this morning, sadly, but with the afternoon there seems to have come a break in the haze of summer, treating my muse to blue skies and colored fields. In that same vein, I tried to step outside my usual, and go for a touch of tanka.
Hope the weather’s treating you all as kindly. May it be a fertile day for creativity!
Mother dances green
Before Father’s skyward kiss.
Sweet husband Golden
Pirouetting long shadows
Across her blossom billows.
And here’s a bit of greenery to put a little summer slant into your day…cheers!
Image property of: Chris Galford.
Before abyss come the clock-tower.
The little boy by midnight asks—
her look, lost in the candlelight—
the nature of empty books lain dormant,
the moonless night above a bridge
when there is nothing left to lose—
in sedimentary smiles she sighs:
when there is nothing
there is love.
The Waking Den 