Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Fallow


Fallow




So many times
you’ve been the field where
storms hailed the crops flat,
your task to regrow them,
the cold eroded shingle
where fire died,
you with numb fingers
in a night of frost and ghosts,
the rekindler. 
So 

let me warm you now 
for that brief time
that I’m permitted
as darkness presses.
Turn the cup upside down,
let your hard hours spill out
to pool in a bottomless green.
Sleep for a season with all life unborn
you the fallow field this once
over which the placid plough horse

passes unhindered, breaking clods of years'
compaction, earth's old demands arable
and dropping open under a citrine sun.
Lightly, surely the harrow passes
in the long afternoons, a music
on those plains where ever they sing
of planting, of the green to come,
not freezes, not blight, not backs bent,
where my rain falls like ocean. Let
every tall crop there be your own.

Let me in you at last give back
seed for root
right for wrong
life for death
and make life enough
so 
when time is done with us
in the dusk of a long coming gleaning,
there'll be love in the last look back
before we blow away.






November 2011











16 comments:

  1. That's beautiful. And it's convinced me that I could do with some time to lie fallow for a while and recover from some very tough harvests over the last few years.

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  2. Now you know I adore these poems, this one is perhaps the kindest, gentlest yet. The last lines worthy of inscribing on the soul. I get quiet in the presence of the inner paramour poems, awe the only response I can muster.

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  3. This is beauty entire, and I wish I'd written it. Eyes closed. Wonder.

    One of my very best favorites of JT's too.

    Thank you for this tenderness, this morning, in this warm firelight.

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  4. Joy,
    Not turning in to fallow, a productive field is successful through valiant efforts. Very true in case of love in your verse, to be nurtured to bloom. Great verse!

    Hank

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  5. Oh, Hedge. This brought tears to my eyes.

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  6. This lovely piece with you so closely allied with the field in that empathy awareness brings reminds me of the poems in "The Wild Iris" by Louise Gluck written in the language of flowers. And at the same time it reads like a love poem to an old and deep love, especially with the last four lines. You too bring this small world to life in such a way that I recognize it. What a gift.

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  7. smiles...i like the feel of this...allowing the field that has given mush lay fallow and be cultivated and cared for so that it might once again bear crops...nice write hedge...

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  8. Beautiful. No one could fail to be moved by this, surely.

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  9. What a sweet sweet love song, Hedge, I and Thou as harrowed field and hallowed sky, the healing which is nature's become ours as well, somehow, if we pay attention to how these things work. The conversation between these lovers is generous and benign as only a three-billion-year old marriage can be. We get just a few years to right the balance. The coming of winter that erases all growth could imply a larger death here, or the end-time of a human pairing who swore til death do they part. Makes me wipe a tear for the harm and boon we are always a part of. - Brendan

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  10. Thanks all. After several nasty, down poems thought all of us deserved a break.

    @Anna: So glad you enjoy these. It's taken me many years to get to them.

    @Ruth: Tenderness and firelight are natural companions. Thanks for reading, and glad you enjoyed one of my own fave JT tunes. I especially like the pictures at the end, of young and old faces on split screen--how we live, I think.. The secret of life, indeed.

    @MZ; Thanks for the heartfelt response.

    @GM: Will look for that poem. The language of flowers is meant for poetry. Glad to see you here, and thanks for your kind words.

    @DK: Thanks so much for that comment, simple but deeply satisfying to me, and for reading.

    @B:Harm and boon, indeed. Our love is as wounding to others as to ourselves, as long as the I is at the center instead of the Thou, till we learn to turn it from only taking into giving and back again. But you knew that. Thanks as always for walking here through the word brambles in the forest, where sometimes the berries make up for the thorns.

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  11. It's an interesting thought, too that the interior paramour needs healing as much as we do. Reminds me of that story of Rhiannon, where Pwyll spends three days trying to catch up with the wild horsewoman. Finally, when he gives up, she appears. And says I was trying to catch you ... Maybe we write these love-songs to heal that wounded lover within, the one we thought would heal us. If so, you nailed it here, kiddo, with this sweet and generous chalice of rain before the final fire. - Brendan

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  12. @B: I think that's certainly a part of it, of every poem, really. But also that in being wounded, we finally understand the weight of wounds the Other carries, and what we want we can also do. The whole universe is pervaded with that sort of duality, everything human especially seems to have some counterpart, counterweight, mirror image or bizarro world distortion of itself. All that comes into the lovesong we spend our lives learning to sing, I think. I love that Pwyll story, btw--though I think it almost has to be the woman fleeing before, then turning, the marshlight of the Anima--not that I haven't run barefoot through the storm after a few horses myself. ;-)

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  13. I could feel the love for the fallow field. And I agree, the last verse is heavenly.

    Let me in you at last give back
    seed for root
    right for wrong
    life for death
    and make life enough
    so
    when time is done with us
    in the dusk of a long coming gleaning,
    there'll be love in the last look back
    before we blow away.

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  14. Hedge? Where is Hedge? And who are you?!?

    Seriously, this is exceptional. Perfect song to go with it, too.

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  15. ooooh! i love this and the ending is sublime! ♥

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg