from the boy's view:
our violet standard
blood wet
stood here
as
my father
against horsemen
cut down
a grunt
a swing
a horse galloping
on
not a word
taking life
sundering
my beloved;
lean
on knee
a handful of mud
I scoop
the bloody earth
my warpaint
two eyes
I am
caked with my father
iced with remembrance
those colors
those lions,
of silver
swinging
in a blue sky
of snorts
neighing
braying
mud spraying
a dirty wake
a martyr make
no mistake
said I
a boy
of memory
long
long as silver
tongue swung
slaying
old and young
our violet standard
blood wet
stood here
as
my father
against horsemen
cut down
a grunt
a swing
a horse galloping
on
not a word
taking life
sundering
my beloved;
lean
on knee
a handful of mud
I scoop
the bloody earth
my warpaint
two eyes
I am
caked with my father
iced with remembrance
those colors
those lions,
of silver
swinging
in a blue sky
of snorts
neighing
braying
mud spraying
a dirty wake
a martyr make
no mistake
said I
a boy
of memory
long
long as silver
tongue swung
slaying
old and young
Reading and Commentary
13 comments:
Really a beautiful offering today! Evocative of thatched roofs, the sound of the iron weapons striking, smell of blood in the air. "I am caked with my father" made me sit back in the chair in awe.
Oh Lime, you are gonna make me blush now. :-D
OH, I'm doubting it. A man as prolific as you are draws praise all day long, every day. And appears to thrive in it! Good for you. In my office is posted a Lincoln quote. "Whatever you are, be a good one." And you are.
and I'm humbled and grateful for every single comment . . . of that, there is no doubt.
as always, your kind words are most appreciated. they make me smile in ways I wish you could see. :-)
Seriously, have you always been a wordsmith? Childhood up?
Nope. Just started writing about 3 years ago. I was told in college I shouldn't write, I believed them, so I didn't.
The sentence that Lime has quoted is the one that was most outstanding as I read this poem, it appears in the mind as one reads like a series of snapshots (I am reminded of Cyndie and Derek) each very telling, following one another so quickly, they become animated and a dramatic and stirring scene unfolds in the mind's eye that is kindled by the concentrated language used, evocative, atmospheric, the images that form in the mind through your expressions seems more like memory than given impression, as though one can smell the mud, feel the heart, hear the echo of those remembered cries (sounds). It feels as though it has been seen, heard, not just read. Recovery, processing is entirely necessary, from the images themselves, as well as from the renewned understanding (occuring each time you are read) of your astounding, overwhelming ability to summond the reader into your fantasy, a summons that in the sharing becomes as real as real is.
Sweetest, I know this is going to sound strange, but this poem, as the others in this series are as vivid in my mind as any memory of my own childhood. I am writing from images that haunt me, images that are crystal clear, images that won't go away. The boy is perfectly formed in my mind, what he looks like, how he walks and is dressed, what he feels and smells and sees on the spot his father was slain.
I only wish I was a better writer because I know what I see and I know what I write and the two don't match. So I write over and over again, the same scene, the father, shield raised, sword descending, taking his life; and I can feel the impact, of steel on wood, not in my imagination, but I literally feel it. I wake every morning, and before coffee has set it, I feel it, I see it, the wood inadequate to the task. And in this way, I feel compelled to write. This is not fiction. It is my reality. I don't create, I transcribe. That is what these poems are.
Good on you. ALWAYS question what "they" tell you. "They" were dead wrong.
Lime, where were you about twenty-five years ago? :-D
Still listening to the messages "they" gave me. Still processing myself according to the input of others who may or may not have had my best interests in mind. I've only recently recovered. But I am living proof that an old dog really can learn new tricks.
Amazing Tree.
Thanks Jen. :-)
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