Saturday, April 30, 2011

For All I Know






For all I know



For all I know your earthen eyes
have long been lidded, stopped
pouring light into the world long ago,
or perhaps not yet.

On the barren moon, no air
to lift the empty dust, no motion
except the blows of cosmic debris;
is this the derelict garden

where we will never meet again,
a passive absence, slapped silence, stillness
round nothing? Little matter if it is
you say, we’ll never know

as we don’t know now, and there,
Laocoön-like  in the curves of the wyrm, is
where we worry at the strangling knot, no more 
than huddled kobolds over a scroll

in which we are forever illiterate
and which in our play we deface.
Perhaps even cobalt darkness is better 
than black if within it we can put lights.

Here flat stones to cover us, carved to
mimic all the layered leaves of lies,
tell us, wait for the day
when that beam of unlight, unflesh

will pierce us all and hang us
on its string, a blowing ornament
in the solar wind,  eyes wide open,
each pupil some bright new star,

or else, perhaps some
phosphorescent decay.



April 2011




Photo:Face of the Moon, 
Courtesy of Jet Propulsion Laboratory/NASA




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8 comments:

  1. "Forever illiterate" captures so much. Beautiful, Hedge.

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  2. yay! hands a cup of water to the runner as she crosses the finish line...smiles.

    ok love the D&D reference...kobolds over a scroll...hot. maybe i can work a gelatenous cube into a poem...hmm...

    oh we will meet again...and it will be quite the party...smiles.

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  3. Just brilliant, Hedge. "a blowing ornament in the solar wind, eyes wide open" - fantastic.

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  4. A profound and intelligent poem, which demonstrates wonderful moments of lyrical genius. I enjoyed this a great deal, James.

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  5. The last ten lines just blew through me. *shiver*

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  6. Congrats on a strong ending packed with stark imagery.

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  7. Wjat dp we know of each other, of love, of history, the world, the poem? Like Brian Eno quipped, "energy fools the magician," and knowledge fools the poet: yet out of such confusion, this profusion of fine, wounded, winding, knowledgeable images. And why not get it down? "we'll never know / as we don't know now."" - B

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