Old man winter has arrived. Frost, crisp-like edges busting life into the lungs. Frozen and jagged and burning at times. Particle eyelids and nosebleeds. Left alone with the sound of breath. A frozen veil exhaled then sucked in again. Backlit flare of the early morning. Undisturbed crystal kingdoms waiting for end times as the sun glares from behind the land.
There are only four seasons now. Never again a single, lone spade crushing then upturning the baked underneath. No, not again. Even with visions of the tropics, there will always be a return to the earn of pattern and rhythm of knowing change is here, now, and again.
Mechanical sounds and the smell of diesel. Work, hard work, and gloved hands of toil. Memories, yes, but a foreshadowing of the days ahead. Are we ready and prepared? Are we of concern or is it too late? Run your fingers along the path and watch as your standing as the individual becomes clear.
We are responsible. We are. But instead of the hard stick left with full afterburner, we must eject and merge once again with the truth that lives above and below. There will be exposure. There will be trust. But the reward is in need of a rewrite and where we must focus our energy.
Comments 8
In the field, two horses,
Two swans on the river,
While a wind blows over
A waste of thistles
Crowded like men;
And now again
My thoughts are children
With uneasy faces
That awake and rise
Beneath running skies
From buried places.
For the line of a swan
Diagonal on water
Is the cold of winter,
And each horse like a passion
Long since defeated
Lowers its head,
And oh, they invade
My cloaked-up mind
Till memory unlooses
Its brooch of faces —
Streams far behind.
Then the whole heath whistles
In the leaping wind,
And shrivelled men stand
Crowding like thistles
To one fruitless place;
Yet still the miracles
Exhume in each face
Strong silken seed,
That to the static
Gold winter sun throws back
Endless and cloudless pride.
Philip Larkin
Author
Neil,
Wow. I’m a poetry novice but when I take the time to read this, and think, it’s magical.
“Poetry novice…” I’d say not… a very impressive stream of consciousness, nonetheless. I don’t know what you were/are suggesting in the last three paragraphs, but for me, it was prophetic of our current time and of the next few years to come. I’m going to copy/mark these words and get back to you regarding them in 2 or 3.
I’m not fan of modern poetry per se, but Philip’s poem is an exception for sure… exceptional that is! Thanks for sharing, guys… great words and thoughts to marinate to play with.
Author
Tad,
Jimmy Santiago Baca wrote a poem for the Norman Mauskopf book on Northern New Mexico. Quite a book and quite a poem if you can find it.
Dan, you have a knack for painting in words. “Never again a single, lone spade crushing then upturning the baked underneath” to me is reminiscent of Dylan Thomas: “The sun-leaved holy candlewoods drivelled down to one singeing tree with a stub of black buds.” Free verse is the most difficult form, Dylan Thomas made a few successful attempts, but generally conformed to the rules of form, metre and rhyme. You have a talent for free verse. Looking forward to the next installment.
Author
Ian,
Thank you! I love free verse. One of the most exciting things I get to do. And it doesn’t take much to fill my tank. One good line will do.
Nice lyrical words all around, though I gravitate more to the asemic these days. Accountable, but not responsible.
Dan, you have a knack for painting in words. “Never again a single, lone spade crushing then upturning the baked underneath” to me is reminiscent of Dylan Thomas: “The sun-leaved holy candlewoods drivelled down to one singeing tree with a stub of black buds.” Free verse is the most difficult form. Dylan Thomas did some but generally conformed to the rules of form, metre and rhyme. You’re doing a great job and I look forward to reading more.