The sky is pale blue
and cloudless
the horizon bending slightly
at the edges
I watch dust dance like devils
with nothing to do
From a tower I sit
my cup inverted
my metal heavy
rope gone
clapper hanging limp
lips without cry
only the ring of memory
remains
I wear a coat of dust
warmer by the days
impotent without hands
silent without legs
hanging from my neck
watching a quiet horizon
and wondering
how I ever
let
you
go
(what is a bell
without ring
what am I
without you)
2 comments:
Herein lies another chapter of why poetry is both infinitely fascinating and difficult, meanings rolling one atop the other, in a forum of readers one might have as many varied interpretations. This poem tapped out to my mind's eye cards of the Tarot, as though behind the images on the face there are more lengthy interpretations, mouldable by condition and circumstance, thought and emotion, wishes for and wishes against, all under the influence of the inverted cup. This is not the first time that I have read this poem, not by far, each time I seem to spiral within, never quite certain that I am hearing it at all. Fascinating and confusing, and entirely wonderful for both those reasons to name but two of many more.
Written on a Saturday morning, mourning still, still in bed, for a voice to that which was gone. I felt as the bell, hung upside down, abandoned, tongue stolen in absence and only the dust coming to my side, hugging me tight.
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