A Distant Shore
Our minds are borne in decaying reeds
Flotsam of pernicious loves lost
All to live through tiger-crescent eyes
Lusting through thickets of salacious glades
I swam in the tides for sixty days
The sea churning butter into drowning stars
We were modern plays. Drawn into the world
Of pale eyed alabasters with delicate, pink feet
A hole in my jacket as I traveled:
Mesmerized by pioneers of bygone eras
And the foam! The mischievous foam rising
To kiss your face. Where fish would sing!
My rawhide boots on the weary dunes –
Where you see the miracle brown waves
Drown mariners of time swelling backwards
Into insufferable dawns and pallid moons.
The hull of the ship filled with precious eels
And red vomit burned into Ringwood days
I kneeled and wept with planetary winds
Drinking the malady of time into bottomless nights
The plant of our hearts was growing beyond its dark roots
And was nourished where the sun met quaint ocean joys
We watched one thousand ships sail in from the distance
And Helen was flowing rich in our blood.
Flotsam of pernicious loves lost
All to live through tiger-crescent eyes
Lusting through thickets of salacious glades
I swam in the tides for sixty days
The sea churning butter into drowning stars
We were modern plays. Drawn into the world
Of pale eyed alabasters with delicate, pink feet
A hole in my jacket as I traveled:
Mesmerized by pioneers of bygone eras
And the foam! The mischievous foam rising
To kiss your face. Where fish would sing!
My rawhide boots on the weary dunes –
Where you see the miracle brown waves
Drown mariners of time swelling backwards
Into insufferable dawns and pallid moons.
The hull of the ship filled with precious eels
And red vomit burned into Ringwood days
I kneeled and wept with planetary winds
Drinking the malady of time into bottomless nights
The plant of our hearts was growing beyond its dark roots
And was nourished where the sun met quaint ocean joys
We watched one thousand ships sail in from the distance
And Helen was flowing rich in our blood.
posted by ... at 12:43 AM
21 Comments:
Oh that IS rich. - imagery , motion, madness and all.
butter churned to crimson
ringwood days- aahhh
feel like swimming in its fragrant thickness before hell freezes it/me/you over.
I love the last line "And Helen was flowing rich in our blood." *sigh*
And how you managed to make this fantastical poem work while incorporating "vomit" (red vomit no less) is a true skill. It does capture the beauty and the bile in this not-so ancient mariner's tale.
lucky girl.
So, it is the turn of love to be adorned with your words. I always found it very difficult to write about love. I see that you effortlessly pass through the strong images that make for a lovely rendering of this fragile subject. There is some pain too, of a yearning that has been spoken about, but hidden inside your language. Sometimes raw, sometimes plain, sometimes glazed, all the time very beautiful, the feeling of being in it and the aftermath as well. Very nice poem!
jon - Thank you for the compliments. Yes, The Guiding Light - perfect fit for Cape Cod.
inkblot - I love the word "rich." Just something about it.
Carpe, what did you say? Time to swim!
Scheherazade - Vomit and bile just strike me as unavoidable collateral to those ancient sea voyages. If I was on a ship with all males for months at a time, I'd be contributing.
bismuth - Who's that?
sz - I think your comment may have surpassed my post. Thank you for that.
I really intended this as a sort of beatnik adventure piece. Though there is love in the surroundings and whoever happens to share it.
this, the other half of the "we"
and the "you" kissed by foam. lucky her.
We were modern plays. Drawn into the world
Of pale eyed alabasters with delicate, pink feet
The mischievous foam rising
To kiss your face. Where fish would sing!
bismuth - Oh, yes. Thank you. It does sound like a magical place to share.
"To kiss your face. Where fish would sing!", I love this image; filled with life and innocence.
Fascinating vision, imagination and expression. Was particularly struck by the last line... 'And Helen was flowing rich in our blood.' Simple, powerful, gut-driven.
(sigh!) Brilliant. Period.
[As I read you,
as a thrill trills quietly, urgently
through my arms, nape and my right nipple,
a soft, warm burst of pleasure blooms in me,
as I see - a wordsmith as you supple,
as I read you.]
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
hey- why did you remove the orange haze of you? was that a 4 day or 4 week stubble? :D
waiting for the worms..
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Ack. Sorry it's taken me a little longer than usual to reply. I've been exceptionally busy. I do appreciate everyone who takes the time to swing by. And now that that's out of the way...
danny - Nature does carry that sort of harsh innocence. Doesn't it?
prashanth - Wow. That comment was amazing. I'm humbled.
With outbursts like that, burst away!
inky - I said it would disappear. The stubble was just my chest hair I pasted to my face. heh.
**silvermOOn** - Thank you. I think it's the transition from an appreciator to becoming a creator.
And get some rest for once (that's an order).
I keep coming back.
Can I link to you, kindly? :)
prashanth - Link away. I'll happily do the same.
have to agree...a fantastic poem...can i link to you also?
blindelephant.blogspot.com
peace
Thanks T-R, Here goes.
writing about love can be a task riddled with problems. it all comes out "icky" and sntimental and mushy.
you have managed to write about it with style and a bit of bite.
neat and intelligent and very cool.
csperez - You bet. I'll be over to blindelephant soon and will put up the link. Thanks for stopping by.
**silvermOOn** - The night's when all the interesting people are out. I'd tell you not to sleep too regularly, but I don't want to give bad advice.
prashanth - Right back at you.
cj - Thanks. It's so very true writing about that topic. I'm not sentimental at all but have a tendency to romanticize things. It takes some tiptoeing.
"i swam in the tides for sixty days/the sea churning butter into drowning stars./we were modern plays."
i love those lines.
i don't move so well within them.
maybe for the weight of the role play; maybe it's the butter.
oh, plasmic, yes, you know i like it. softness, sweetness, and all things 'lady.'
in related news...how the fuck to i change my fucking comment name from diana to something fucking cooler??!!
oh, and further...you can't find me.
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