“for not a page turns
without your words
nor does not one breath pass
without your air
and is this caravan
a burden born
wanders
wanders ever
to find that good oasis
but once more”
notes… to her. I can not say I am beholden, it is my own doing, my own undoing, knowing a thing does not solve a thing. sometimes my only respite is simple lines, as these, a temporary reprieve at that…
A revisit of THIS post with all my notes, annotation and the like, sometimes my water runs a bit deeper, sometimes I am just an ordinary schmuck…
upon Llangernyw Yew
so you grand tree does thee wait
guard the dead and call them out *(1)
in st dygain’s yard beyond the gate
there you wait, date to date,
on the promise, all hallows eve *(2)
all the world’s ear leans towards that tree *(3)
not wanting to hear that prophetic voice *(4)
and bear witness to angelystor, no, not by choice
for role is the call of the dead *(5)
might your name, might be read
do not be bold and curse the land
for bear you will with Rhobert’s hand *(6)
and know now that halloween has past
your name not whispered cross those limbs
from the depths of that ancient root
you are not called back bound eternity
under that shadow of Llangernyw Yew
First off the tree is perhaps 4,000-5,000 years old, pretty awesome to contemplate.
(1) This is all about the Legend of Angelystor (“The Recording Angel” inspired by St Peter perhaps?), which, according to the Welsh tradition twice a year (once on halloween (2), so I thought emphasizing that was best) the spirit would announce the names of those from the parish who would perish that coming year, the legend stipulates that those who cared or dared to hear the angel’s decree would gather under the east window of the church to hear the proclamation (3,4,5), of course someone does not believe in the legend and fiercely denies it (Sion Ap Rhobert), well, you can figure out what happened to that guy (6). So, basically this is a poem about some tree…
upon Llangernyw Yew
so you grand tree does thee wait
guard the dead and call them out
in st dygain’s yard beyond the gate
there you wait, date to date,
on the promise, all hallows eve
all the world’s ear leans towards that tree
not wanting to hear that prophetic voice
and bear witness to angelystor, no, not by choice
for role is the call of the dead
might your name, might be read
do not be bold and curse the land
for bear you will with Rhobert’s hand
and know now that halloween has past
your name not whispered cross those limbs
from the depths of that ancient root
you are not called back bound eternity
under that shadow of Llangernyw Yew
notes… so my friend inspiration came knocking, we have been sort of passing each other on the street in sight so often, but this time a knock on the door from an old friend, invited in, sit down for a bit of tea, yes, I am a sucker for earl grey, burgamot is citrus after all, a unique lemon, I know not why I get the visit, I just sit and listen, and so transcribe my notes… (I will annotate this poem later with my many references, as I am known to do)
for upon your children’s children
a parade of red roses
ash blows the sky
for generations remain
locked beneath in shallow graves
foundation of bone
fire on the feet
countless clock hands clap
a breath, a clasp moment
a heart, a beat to
pulse sweet blood on track
how the world eye remains fixed
a glorious host
the vessel of birth
the cradle that serves
the ending desires of the natural way
of all that may be
expanding
one day collapsing
the cycle of near infinity
loops back upon
your children’s children
a procession of possession
travel on for as long
as time will permit
as time shall exist
notes… I will let this one stand alone, it was one of those that I say “wrote itself” for whatever that is worth, your thoughts on the matter are always appreciated…
“as I close my eyes to dream
might I become
the song of a bird
to race out
upon the breeze
and find comfort
to nest
in the ear
of a child
and conjure forth
a smile
of innocent
wonder”
notes… reincarnation in a thought, I would hope to have an impact, or at least create something positive, I also wanted this to read in a certain way, in waves, up and down, it works for me, but hey, that isn’t real critique, I hope it works for you…
putting bread into the bird feeder
good enough for me
good enough for them
this is winter
they should write me thank you letters
by letting me watch their behaviors
but so much more advanced am I
I do not speak their languages
and perhaps this is not the same bread I use
this is more the leftovers turning stale
but I deem this good enough for you
you are certainly more studious
you built your own house
and raised a family
even if through basic instincts
I am here alone
stuffing bread
on a cold quiet night
into an empty feeder
swinging in the tree
spinning left and right
notes… I do not post to show you brilliant poetry, I post what is going on in my mind at the time, at least that is the goal, I fail, as we all do, but that is what I am up to, I write like this naturally, always have, I was just afraid in the past (stupidly) to be me full on, full force, so here I am, better or worse, I like to think I am exploring perspective, well, I try…
(previously posted but now with annotations, links and such. being a bit nerdy today… sometimes more goes into a poem than I care to think about… sometimes…)
dear Miranda, (*1)
but just a glimpse
a fading pass (*2)
for you hide and dance
forever show the same face (*3)
within a tempest born (*4)
the scars of stars upon your form
all about craters worn
from drunken horde, magicians wand (*5)
father Prospero’s hand, Stephano’s yard
Trinculo’s joke read out on your garb
your scarps take breath
Verona Rupes
in all the moons of this
solar system our bed
your light touch would save (*6)
twelve minute fall
and might I discover
the patterns
the sulci
in which your lines are read,
may we see you again (*7)
not just a glimpse
but a visit then.
does looking at this image cause you some disorientation ? In fact, this most famous of photographs is shown here the way it was meant to be seen, or more accurately the way it was actually shot, Bill Anders (Apollo 8) was not thinking about the horizon (which pretty much orients our visual field), he was just a space explorer taking a photo as one celestial body comes into view from right to left (from the capsule orbiting another body). Amazing how that screws us up but yet is a great reminder on how much we take for granted in our daily experience (how limited we are to this sphere and maybe we should think outside of things sometimes, being stuck to the ground with gravity). More remarkable, to me, is also the Apollo missions themselves. Imagine, during the course of just a few years, continued space launches to reach the moon (and walk on it) with the technology of 50 years ago. There were no cell phones, no flat screens, no home PCs, no GPS, no finger spinners… OK, that last one seems inconsequential, I admit, but just chew on that whole for a minute… in the space of three years 12 people walked on another world, hard to even get my head around let alone yours. Just something to think about in the coming year, shoot for the moon they say…
(a nice outline of the entire Apollo project) and since I am being nerdy, here is a loaded poem, I will unpack it at some later date, lots of footnotes to date and take… can you catch them all? (hint: the one link I supplied in the name)
dear Miranda,
but just a glimpse
a fading pass
for you hide and dance
forever show the same face
within a tempest born
the scars of stars upon your form
all about craters worn
from drunken horde, magicians wand
father Prospero’s hand, Stephano’s yard
Trinculo’s joke read out on your garb
your scarps take breath
Verona Rupes
in all the moons of this
solar system our bed
your light touch would save
twelve minute fall
and might I discover
the patterns
the sulci
in which your lines are read,
may we see you again
not just a glimpse
but a visit then.
let my eyes speak sex
with lurid intent
a sultry stare
the thrust of wet
bodies bare
dripping sweat
tight embrace
coital lock
in that moment
pure escape
notes… I think about things like “can I communicate with my eyes”, can I say “I want you” with these baby blues, why do we pretend, the games, the end, there is times when desire and lust are just forefront, we all have impulses and I am no exception, life- lust- visceral… and I think this is just one of the sexiest songs ever…
“interrogation of flies“
I sit at my desk
cigarette in hand
half cocked, not lit
ashtray, ashtrays no longer exist
papers arranged by ear by year
slop across the desktop
or what the cat lady dragged in
priorities rise and fall like a tide
always coming in
always high tide
I would like to think I made something of this life
wife, kids
but no, here I am, here am I,
mired in this, my domain, my cage.
notes… in my head I saw this beaten down disheveled lifer newspaper guy, who can’t smoke at his desk furiously anymore, and like any of us he misses the “good old days” regardless if they were actually good, they were the routine, and most of us fall in love with routine, but then we wind up, here and there, with a waking moment like “what the hell am I doing here?” and then it passes as furious and visceral as it felt, falls back to the routine, so this poem is not technically about me but definitely has some pieces of me in the bones…
and…. if you do me the honor of sharing my content, cool, please do, just a hint of credit would do nicely though on the karma meter, and thanks for the look, the read, your time, I appreciate it.
Shades of My Garden 