.
no incendiary
paradise
of illuminated
immensity
one heart
cold
night
weeping to itself
tears
drops of dew
a great distance to
morning
Uncoiling (dew on yellow rose): photo by Andrew Ratto, 2004
paradise
of illuminated
immensity
one heart
cold
night
weeping to itself
tears
drops of dew
a great distance to
morning
Uncoiling (dew on yellow rose): photo by Andrew Ratto, 2004
And this is exactly what last night was like and how I woke up feeling this morning.
ReplyDeleteMan the lifeboats, in that case.
ReplyDeleteI think we're in this together, Curtis.
gosh! and just a few minutes ago i wrote on your post 'matins':
ReplyDeleteand the distance between these two
is a hand pushing the door
open
it's a matter of perspective...
eagles and crows have different eyesights...
:)
great poem! so tender...
i had this feeling that i wanted to reach out and touch those dewdrops...
love this.
ReplyDeleteWomen and children first, or is it every man for himself? -- "But look, the morn in russet mantle clad walks or the dew of yon high eastward hill. . . ."
ReplyDeleteLifeboat ethics seem to be improving by the minute around here.
ReplyDeleteI love it when it feels like there is a great distance to morning and the night is weeping. Of course I never had those words for it but now I do. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteWonderful poem Tom. I liked it thoroughly. Especially the night weeping it self to tears. The structure as always worth the uncoiling.
ReplyDeleteWho was it said a kind comment from a terrific writer is worth more than platinum or gold? Whoever it was wasn't just blowing it out through her/his vuvuzela.
ReplyDeleteHahaha. I was just going to come here and complain about them vuvuzelas. I absolutely detest the sound they make. Its like a swarm of bees coming all over you. And even the fact that they cannot sting does nothing to make you feel better.
ReplyDeleteI agree about the comments' worth part, Tom. They make you feel what neither gold nor platinum could ever do. At times, they tuck me in, to a peaceful sleep at nights.
Am happy, they have survived the traders, the goldsmiths, the worth-assessors.
Am also happy, you have for long nurtured them.
This is a very beautiful poem, and reminds me somewhat of this, by Fleur Adcock:
ReplyDeleteThere are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.
Though, at the risk of being extremely corny (and sometimes corn is good for one), I might direct the weary reader here.
ReplyDeletenot by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light
Zeph,
ReplyDeleteWell, Fleur rings true on this.
But next time I have the 5 a.m. horrors (that is, next time it's five a.m.), I will try to remember the bracing support offered by Arthur Hugh.
They say there are some people who are able to sleep soundly, no matter what.
Say not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!