Perseus Kneels to the Crowd

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.

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Geese heading south for winter strike an odd pose

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.

Dusted Nights

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…

Phoenix Flight

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.

Poetic Spotlight: Archaic Torso of Apollo

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

Now Boarding, Now Rambling

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.