Last night I wrote this after reading Rodger Kamenetz's first chapter of his new book on dreams, at his site, talkingdream. Which I think is in here. But all day I knew that some writing was coming, even before Dave so kindly led us to talkingdream. But there are synchronicities, synchronicities you understand...
On evolution, Biblical Genesis, our individual consciousnesses, bodies, how we put it together…
Scilicet, When Evaporating Condenses, or the Effulgence of Being
Soft canyons iron balls fall into. Unnamable violence. His hands around my neck in the shroud of the dream. I climb spider ladders like fishnet hose. In the morning I forget, the sky is so blue.
Blood rushes like a river's tributaries through my body. The furious tide never stops. Red wash of bone, marrow more alive than stars. Ceaseless production of red.
And on the face of the nameless sea the nameless God breathed. Wind rushing through trees.
The emotion of any poem is its core, and what beats long after. Bones grinding in their sockets. We are scaffolded from within.
Wear the bones, hidden. Hush of blood. Walking heart bombs. Steady beat, in, out, freshly reddened.
Something splinters into an infinity of light, scattering, the refracted holy. Sepulchre of being. Look for the sweetness, it is there. Find the sweet breath, breathe.
Across the continent of the world I lay my pen, weeping. Come, bring yours.
When we entered complexity, there was no turning back.
Refulgence, the brilliant light, an after thought. Past where the sticks fall like loose hay, I dip my fingers through, looking for a needle.
The mist of the evening lifts, and I see you face to face. Curvature maps the trajectory of words flying into feather canyons like iron volleys.
And then I saw it, and knew, before it disappeared into the celestial.
Feather soft canyons of thought.
Each moment I pull myself into you, though I have run away.
The horizon fills with red suns rising.
Stay out here in the space.
Where the winsomely wild.
Exchange shots, vaults of iron; put down your guns. Cling to the vestiges, or let go.
Keep running across the field, though you are coming to yourself. Sometimes the only way to get close is to go away.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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Brenda I really respond to the imagery in the poem! There was a word that immediately came to mind. I looked it up in the dictionary to see if it actually defined my feelings. The word was "efflulgent." Then I saw the words that followed which were "effuse," "effusion," and "effusive." They all seemed in one way or another to capture the spirit of your writing; all in a very imagistic manner! I found the writing to be a marvelous "visual" metaphor for the four words.
ReplyDeleteAs you are probably aware from some of the things I talk about on my web site I have been interested in the limits of languge to express the ineffable; a very strong Wittgensteinian position. I thought this was a good example of the power of words to use imagery yet go beyond it.
lhombre, so good to see you've dropped by! You're right, effulgencies- I'm not a
ReplyDeletepared down' writer, not minimalist or even Zen I guess; rather, loving the sensual world in all its possibilities. And when might we be getting more of your beautiful poetry? xo
Wonderful images and wordplay -- and I love the ending: the process of "coming back." Reminds me of a quote by Georg Christoph Lichtenberg: "There is a great difference between still believing something and believing it again."
ReplyDeleteThanks, too, for your note and good words. I've posted the drawing here, with a link back to your "Two Black Plumes" entry.
Brenda, your writing is like your paintings, lush, vibrant, shimmering with color. You paint with words, I think. I love that last stanza. Keep running across the field, though you are coming to yourself. Sometimes the only way to get close it to go away. It epitomizes the paradoxes of life (and there are so many) that must be held in the hand simultaneously.
ReplyDeletee_journeys, yes, something about falling in love over and over with the same person is what makes a great marriage, relationship... :)
ReplyDeleteI took a peek at your sketches, too, and loved them! Thank you for posting the link... xo
mb, there was a quote by Helene Cixous of Clarice Lispector's that I can't quite recall, something about going across the other way to get here, and it struck me as so true (the book is in storage). And then I thought of non attachment, which perhaps is similar. A Buddhist non attachment to the world, cusped in a heart of compassion, surely would bring us as close as is possible to the world. It would be a going away to get here. Though dreams, spiritual dimensions have found their way into this prose poem too. And I agree with you, living in paradox is the only way to flow with the paradoxes that life is... xo