Iron falls heavy
to the eye
in the mind
rising as dawn
falling as night
the space between
measured in prayer
exhaled through teeth
hilt to spittled hilt
upon bloody soil
crimson rivers
form pocks
of quiet lagoons
muted cries nearby
dirty faces
unshod feet
young cheeks faded
running and falling
on porcelain knees
the ground a pew
of wet muck
and not much more
20 comments:
Thank you for reprising so many posts and images. I must say I've filled my head with them and now I'm going to go walk in large circles and think them through. I can't process some of your things quickly. I have to drink them in and then go decide what I believe I've just seen and read. It's a great head exercise.
Limes, you have more space right now for contemplation. I read and attach a simple metaphor. If it takes more brain cells than that I do the airhead blond head tilt vacant smile and click on to other things...the end of year teacher frazzle.
Tree, very nice and dramatic images!
...vacant smile...
5 more days.
Killer last line. Bravo!
OB, you are GOOD ~ I bow to the queen!
You're going to make it through those 5 days.
Lime, you are very kind. Thank you. This poem, as well as some of my others, are, upon first glance, opaque, not intentionally, to pose or show, but rather what you are seeing in a poem like this is me writing to write, writing for myself, writing as a child plays with paint, for the joy of it.
Having said that, this poem, as a few that came before, are what I call snapshots of an image in my mind. The photo, snapshot, is of a field, on the edge of a medieval village. An old warrior turned farmer, old in his age not ours, stands alone against an oncoming attacker on horseback, his sword of steel (I use iron for literary, not literal purposes here) raised slow as dawn, striking down swift as night, giving night to the old one, standing with wooden shield, an old warped, faded oak shield, and the sword comes down, shattering and splintering that shield and the life holding it. The one torn asunder, knows he has no chance, knows from the first gallop of horse and heartbeat, yet stands his ground with caked beard, shield raised, awaiting fate, awaiting the knight to end his days.
As for the question of porcelain knees, as was noted on another site, here is my response:
I think of young children, their knees not fully formed, fish-belly white, running to their slain father, seeing those maroon lagoons of life pooling, their blood seeping into the soil of their substance; and upon this alter, this crimson soil, the plate of their life, those porcelain knees kneel, bare, empty, as fragile as the whim of sun and rain.
Do I expect a reader to get all this from reading? Nope. Is it good poetry? Nope. Does it bring me joy to play in the hues of images and words? Hell yeah. :-D
OB, you can bring your ruby slippers to the campfire anytime and I will listen to your telling the tail of trail and trial upon the single-track, upon the open road where smiles are free and the wind is always at your back. :-)
Gerry, your kind words are duly noted and much appreciated. Thank you.
And yet, especially following dirty faces, unshod feet & young cheeks, your use of porcelain knees creates images in the mind perhaps not as detailed (I fell within your commentary as much as I did the poem, so much so I have a burning desire to hear and see you speak these words, not in reading, but at the time :-) as your description, but the more time one spent with that phrase the clearer it would become, and not so much from finding (analyzing) but from recalling what was subconsciously understood, what was received through your suggestive expressions. Wonderful use of alliteration especially in the part that reads upon bloody soil crimson rivers form pocks of quiet lagoons pronouncing each and every word.
Is this good poetry? Well, in my opinion for what it is worth, that would be a firm yes. :-)
Sweetest, I may need to do a combined reading with a little improv to the reading, a few excursions off the beaten path of the poem and into the wilderness of my imagination, which is where most of these poems have cottages and cook in the open air. :-D
My head has actually formulated a fairly lengthy reply to what you told me about your view. I'm slammed at work, but watch for it - I will tell you what this reader envisioned.
Lime, I've got my limes and my orange liqueur. Take your time, I'm well stocked. But not too long. :-D
Well, that only took about 1,000 hours - can you hear the cash register ringing? My company is pulling out of the recession and it's breaking my back.
OK, briefly, first. Of course one immediately grabs that it's medieval, warriors, villages, farmers. And then you do the rich interplay between the people and we already know that grabs me.
I guess this is the best way for me to say what goes on for me: your words also conjure up images in the reader's head. So I'm dealing with a couple of things - first the words. Your words, how I perceive them, the pictures my mind makes after reading them.
And these are rich for me because I am an Anglophile, have traveled a bit over there. My family is Welsh, and I've tromped through Wales through small, still fairly primitive villages. Your warrior missives put me in mind of the implements in the Tower of London exhibits and other museums throughout the UK.
I guess your fantasy world touches off things in my head that take me to a place I love with a rich, rich history. I wonder how scrambled egg-like that just all sounded. You can tell you put my head in motion!
I mean, I may not even appreciate your art for any of the reasons you'd like it to be admired, but nevertheless, your art touched me.
Lime, I used to travel (business) to the UK several times a year and always took the opportunity (MA in history) to see every historical site I could. These poems lean heavily upon those memories of ivy and stone, of iron in dark places and feminine faces porcelain white. And I haven't even gotten to the sex yet! :-D
OH, that kind of choked me up! The first time I went, my ex and I joined my dad and stepmother there for 6 weeks. I'd always wanted to go. My ex and I made a kind of vow to go spend 6 weeks there every April/May of life, it had been so glorious. The following April/May, I had a 3-month-old baby despite never having one before and having tried for 20 years - go figure all the fate and karma in that. I attribute it to the cold, wet nights after the radiators are turned off because they're so sensibly frugal. ;) I don't have a lot of good things left to say about my ex, BUT - to his supreme credit - he rarely returned to the UK and I have many, many notches in my gunbelt. He stayed home with Amber while I got to go to the place I KNOW I was meant to be in.
I'll send this now, but later, a comment about your tagline about the love you take, etc.
I miss the castles of England, the curries I enjoyed in the midlands and the cliffs I coaststeered off of Wales. But most, I think, I miss the curries. :-D
Maybe a few scottish lasses too. ;-)
Yes, an old cliche suggests that there is no good food in all of England, but that's not fair. Maybe theie native cuisine is not terrific, but it is such a cosmopolitan nation that one kind find ANYTHING there.
Any chance - and if the answer is "yes", damn it, I'm driving to Tennessee right now! - that you know Betws Y Coed or Blaenau Ffestiniog?
Afraid I'm a St. David's kinda guy. :-D
OK, it's all good! Those two places I mentioned are fairly obscure. At least I know not to gas up the car and head southeast!
I completely see why this one rounded up the comments...very vivid and poweful. It's like you can feel everything around you rumbling!!
I love it!!
--snow
Thanks my dear Ninja. If you got the marshmallows, I got the hot chocolate. Come sit with me awhile and I'll tell you a few stories I can't post here. :-D
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