The crack of iron swordsupon the faded heraldry
of wooden shields
shattered and splintered
shields made by calloused hands
before the sloe eyes
of milk-laden cows
and courtyards of cobbled stone
these shields of weathered oak
slain amongst their own as
child to parent witnessed
as limb to trunk departed
sawed limb by limb
by hands calloused
in the labor of raising
crop and child
hammered and beaten
measured and nailed
the damage covered
in the hue of berries
this dead wood
protecting young life
protecting calloused life
the very life
now threatened
now making two noises
the noise of life
still living
and
the noise of life
still fighting
6 comments:
Great image -- love the ending about the two lives.
Thanks OB. :-)
This feels very different to what I have read of you before and in the difference of feeling, I like; muchly.Beautiful images, you.
SarahA, if you read me long enough, you'll learn that I can never stay in one place, stick to one style for very long--my imagination just takes me like the breeze takes a balloon and I'm happy for the ride. :-)
As always, your very kind words are greatly appreciated.
Some pieces, linguistically, literally, especially for they all do so to some extent, make my mouth water. This is one of those. Even before I had finished the first stanza, shivers were running up and down my spine, my mind, my mouth, my heart felt such an incredible surge of excitement that regardless of what I compared it to, just would not describe the feeling adequately. An explosion of delight. Word orgasm. Yes, that is it precisely.
shields made by calloused hands
before the sloe eyes
of milk-laden cows
and courtyards of cobbled stone Absolutely gorgeous, expressions, sound, imagery, an absolute thrill to read aloud, to mouthe the words as the soul moulds like velvet upon them, every crevice, every height, the roughness of calloused and the smoothness of sloe and laden, pure pleasure and this is just one solitary example from within, the entire piece is so. crack of iron swords, shattered and splintered, shields of weathered oak, hue of berries, quotations that become impossible not to write, writing that is so astonishingly good in every which way, the need arises to repeat your words back at you as though you hadn't written them yourself, as though you hadn't read them, as though perhaps if one did, you would see how devastatingly brilliant they are. Sound, expression are one thing, and as though reader could cope with the extents to which you are able to impress, there is meaning too, not least your final five lines. So awed by this poem as a whole, pause is needed, b to come. (remind me)
Sweetest, your words are the watermelon on my hot summer day, the salt that makes me want to write and be read, the sugar that makes me smile when the coffee is black. As always, your comments are pure delight. Thank you. :-)
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