Trev awake as Em sleeps. Translated from the original Hynerian.
Want to taste my poetry
suckle word and verse
nestle to my bosom
as would it were your hearse
I lie as soldiers lay
with arm and mind awash
and from my breath I do breathe
waves upon the death
And gladly shut my eyes
before the act we drew
your gifts were taken succulent
impaled not I to you
For the fruited chest did rise
and ride and row and sow
as I say upon this night
did my seed taken,
reach new height
10 comments:
In the title, you have chosen a most luscious phrase from within language that could only be described as rich throughout, the one, if one had to say just one, that is particularly outstanding. The references to passing, to end, coupled with the associations of suckling and bosom, of fruit, and sow and seed and height, of how one might depict conception as it relates to the biological futility when act is without outcome, in a manner of speaking, la petite mort and genesis and how in conception there is continuity, both part of and separate, so much larger than oneself, the forefather of unceasing lines, throughout ages, not them if not for we, crucial yet forgotten, and a dozen other thoughts that came into play as I read these words and wondered whether death was in reference to being spent, to his seed within her. This is of course an element of what is so wonderful about poetry of this calibre, the different interpretations that can be elicited, founded or not in the opinion of others before the same text, quite often as in life if we were to favour one side of things, everything else can be more or less moulded to suit. The main reason that this reading fell short, besides clarification, is that and admittedly further wording here is influenced, Trev is not in a frame of mind, not at a place in life, where one could imagine him thinking about reproduction, first himself to be delivered, entirely, from the darkness. Now, what I really wanted to say is that this is a great piece of writing, connotative, interesting, very well written.
This is one of those poems that started with the first five words. Wrote them down and then in a playful, thumb twiddling fashion, the rest came forth. Nothing serious here. :-D
I suppose somewhere is a rule that says one shouldn't explain what is meant by certain images within a poem, but I see no reason to start following rules now.
The idea of Em resting her sleeping head on Trev's chest "as would it were your hearse" has a few meanings as I meant it. First, there was the peace of eternal rest with the emphasis on peace, the peace he felt in that moment; second, an emphasis on eternal, as if she would want it to always be this way; third, is the idea that with this new-found poetry of Trev and their reconciliation, the relationship has been consummated such as what is past is now past, dead, and what is to come is something new.
The second stanza simply builds on this concept with the image of him awake, hand behind his head, just breathing as he reflects upon this idea of the relationship, of what was with a clear bent that what is now is something new and different from what was before.
The third stanza shows us that it was Em who took control, which is to say, she rode him and not the other way around; she was the dominant one.
The forth, again, simply builds on the image posited from the third with a typical playful twist at the end, perhaps what we will see as Trev's signature.
Then again, poems are like birds. Once kicked from the nest, they tend to fly all over the place and who is to say that your interpretation is not the more insightful one. :-)
As always, your engaged and thoughtful comments are very much appreciated. :-)
Thank you for that detailed description, off to read it again with this new insight in mind. x
Trev's poem reminded me of old Joe Kipling, one time Vermonter, currently residing in that other place I visit from time to time. So I thought I would write a memory, a little lesson he gave me one time, many moons ago when we were both in East Bengal.
Kipling On Tigers
Kipling spoke to me,
Showed me the tiger's new lair
And where his tracks went.
He told me Bengals swim, drink
Brackish water when they must.
Never, he said, no,
Do not ever look him square
In his golden eyes.
Christopher, I think I'd like to have a beer or two with this Kipling.
Great imagery... the sleep of death is the most lastingly eternal phenomenon of rest...
Quite like the deep rest after an orgasm...
I feel that sex is meditative act that brings one closer to relaxation ...its like transcendental meditation.
Well, Kipling's dead now but was popular in his day, Joseph Rudyard Kipling, and your poetry here reminded me of his. He lived in Vermont a few years.
Come to think of it, he probably has a mighty thirst.
Mona, I think I need some of that meditative relaxation. :-D
As always, your kind words are much appreciated. :-)
Oh, that Joe. Never knew he lived a time in Vermont. :-D
Wonderful to hear and see this read. And looking rather tasty I might add. :-D
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