"When did you pen your first poem?" asked Em.
"The day after. I was on the deck, facing the ocean, my comm in smithereens," said Trev.
"Show me."
Like flakes from a grey sky
my thoughts fall on frozen ground
intricate and beautiful in the air
falling, falling, lightly falling
forever
falling
My days are white with falling
bland as water on my tongue
the color without color
my cloak, my home, my life
I am cold in the midday sun
I am cold before the hearth
The bread of oven shines gold
in my tired pallid hand
I see ghosts in the mirror
and when I close my eyes
they speak in ashen images
shades of narrow memory
beyond my feeble touch
I live with them
as they live with me
in a white house
and a white yard
my sky is wan
my sun is pale
my brook blanched bloodless
Time moves not in ticks
of watch or clock
but in the ivory falling
just falling
day and night
When she finished reading, there was a hug, a few tears and the grasping of hair.
13 comments:
Ohhh, once again, your words just call to something inside of me that gets moved.
If you do not publish your blog into a book, you will be doing many thousands of people a disservice, as well as all of those college professors who will applaud and explore the meaning of your phrases over generations to come :)
Happy New Year 2009 Tree.
I'd love a signed first edition, please !
Annie, you are very kind. I will make you one promise. If I ever publish anything, you've got a signed first edition. :-)
Happy New Year Annie. All the best. And again, thank you for the many kind words over the last few years. Very, very much appreciated.
Here's Wishing you a very happy and prosperous '09!!!!!
I can only agree, that from the beginnings of the story, the thought has been present, active and growing, a thankfulness for the blessing that has been being able to follow this story and as often thoughts of those who have not yet had the pleasure, who do not yet know that these passages exist.
I was thinking about response in relation to the above and how none of us are able to see or do or know or experience everything that might create a response within us. Likewise how our response to something can vary widely from person to person depending on who they are, what they bring, what they have learned, what they have felt, a photograph of a house might for example show the exterior to one, size, number of windows, surroundings, the need of a paint job, to another they may see mostly what they imagine to be inside, they may from the light in the window imagine the voices have spoken within, the happiest of times and the saddest, this is not a good example, but to put it another way, whatever we respond to, we do so with who we are. Van Gogh's Sunflowers for example is not everyone's cup of tea so to speak, though each of us may appreciate it. However there are some things are universal, shared, common, to group the majority one might say what is within us rather than outside of us. I think that I have used this phrase before, but your writing is a smile, a Duchenne smile, from within, genuine, natural, brought to be not by design or with intention, but an unstoppable expression, one that if we are facing you becomes ours too. In response, genuine. This is the quality of your writing, the same power, the same language, the same touch, as a smile. Your motive, though this is perhaps not the right word, nothing other than to smile. It is there whether or not anyone is watching, but in the watching, there is sharing, there is growth, there is touch, ripples. You shall have to bear with me as I write and if I am lucky, you will find the centre of the circle of my point by my hazy outline. :-) The smile one might say is not a gift given but one taken. Without which we would have been poorer. In the smile, we gain awareness, we gain wonder, our capacity grows, as we read of love, our own capacity for it grows, as we read of compassion, our capacity for it grows, we are expanded by touch. A friend and in the relationship, in the love shared, given and given, received and received, one plus one does not equal two but infinity. There are no boundaries, no limits to how often we can be touched, to how much we can love, to how wide we can open our hearts and to how many souls we feel connected. This is what is in a painting that we feel a great response to, or a fictional character that we read about. It isn't - trying to express this properly - any less real or direct than the person, flesh and bone and verbal in front of us, or any less affecting, when the case is such. What it is, I guess, the essence of art, I say while being totally ignorant about such things other than allowing thoughts to lead to that conclusion. You have a gift, an extraordinary gift when coupled with your heart, the gift of language and expression, but it is the depth and beauty of your soul, your ability to receive and respond, that makes your writing so evocative. As an artist, what you do I guess is focus, concentrate, show the very core of a thing, and your ability to do just that, to strip, to hone in on, to present in purest form is as rare as it is special, invaluable. Receptive, responsive, a phenomenal capability not just to perceive but to express what is perceived, as in a smile, in a way that rises above mere action, to create complete (not your 'smile' as it belongs to you, but one equal in realness, in strength) response. I lost a dozen things that I meant to say writing what was said... In the painting created with heart and soul, that this is a thing, matters not in the unseen bond that is created, that the artist is unaware at that moment of how much wonder is coursing through another, so I would think anyway, to the extent of, the value of, the communication. Likewise that words are written and then read, two separate actions, at different times, in different places, the touch is now, and it is again, and it has the capability to be infinite. Captured, to be found. In Trev, we hear, we see, as with all your characters, we respond, and in response we are more. In his heart as he opens, as we receive him into ours, we are more. Life puréd, focus directed, sensibilities concentrated, beauty shown, scope shown, our own capability for seeing beauty, for thought, feeling, understanding, compassion, insight we are reminded of in your presentation, your spotlight. I'll have to begin that again, since it says actually very little of what I wanted to say, even veering at points, so instead to the particulars of this poem. One last word on the writing in general and all that you have and are achieving here, creating here, it is, from the quality and from the extent to which you have touched those who visit, I believe therefore important for reasons that haven't even begun to be defined. Here it is, now, and here it will keep being, and every time that someone reads, it will fill yet more space, create still more, I no longer know exactly what I am trying to say as such, but I do think of the circle, of embrace, within your story, your smile will be yours to receive in full one day, it could not be any other way.
I could say this poem is a definition of poetry but it would be just one and your other poems are as entitled, sitting with this one, right now however, I marvel at how even is the stitching of your thread so to speak, as the needle dips to rise elsewhere, it is as integral, as entire, like the flakes falling that you describe, each is unique, but perfect, perfectly a flake. Gosh, there really is no return from the wow to coherence today. Everything within says one thing, the one thing that it is supposed to say, unwaveringly loyal, as though it were one breath exhaled, grey, fall, frozen, bland, cold, tired, feeble, pallid, ghosts, ashen, wan, white, to mention just parts. It is white. And I am reminded of a psychology question, much like ink blobs, where subjects were asked to describe how they would feel in a room that was only white. The answer determining apparently how they felt about their own mortality. Which ventures of the subject. Your expressions within are not only beautiful and vivid, but inspired, exhilarating. Again, it is the simplicity within lines like I am cold in the midday sun
I am cold before the hearth that is their magic, that is their advantage, why the message within is so effective and a passage like the one that speaks of ghosts in the mirror is a bouquet of language, of illustrative language, sketched in black and white and appearing as the grey it is meant to be. brook blanched bloodless, what else to say but !. And I do apologize for doing nothing but quoting and standing back mouthing wow in this comment and so I end as I started and continued, coffee long since chilled, to say simply that I love this:
Time moves not in ticks
of watch or clock
but in the ivory falling
just falling
day and night
who says so...
Time passes in rising too...
The rising Sun & The rising moon...
Like I feel...its better to rise in friendship than to fall in love...
Trev says so--he wrote it. :-D
Mona, always a pleasure to have you stopping by. Happy New Year to you and yours in 2009. All the best my friend. :-)
Rahul, Happy New Year to you too.
There isn't much more I can say that hasn't already been said. Your words are moving, stirring and much more. They linger on my thoughts and emotions at times. It may be a certain word, or a cluster of them so perfectly put together. Being the honest person that I am, I will say, many times these emotions tend to linger in my thoughts, having nothing to do with the story...they stir the emotions of my own life.
Thank You.
Wishing You A Very Happy New Year!
Hugs,
Kimmie
Happy New Year Georges, with love and best wishes for 2009!!
On turning this into a book...
The trouble with working here is how it moves on and on. We collect archives but going back, recollecting is quite another thing. The edit would be daunting. As a book it would require lots of tightening up. These posts spread out from day to day, but book pages are much denser placed back to back, especially in the current markets for hard copy.
At least this is my current experience.
So the question is, how many bloggers actually even read archives? I know one blogger who from time to time posts links to earlier posts. I did go back but only skimmed.
I started with archives at one site but found I didn't go back after a few days even though I mean to.
This stuff seems much more like doing jazz improv to me.
Happy New Year to you Tree.
Kimmie, thank you for the very kind thoughts. Wishing you and yours a very Happy New Year too. All the best my friend. :-)
Thank you Ms Storm. All the best to you and M. Happy New Year! :-)
Christopher, a very Happy New Year to you and yours too.
Post a Comment