Saturday, February 25, 2012

Feather From An Empty Hat

GuineaFeather

Feather From An Empty Hat



In the whirlwind
leaves in tumult turn
seasons change, chiseled from
an empty hat
hooping along the curb,
flown to drown in the sleety river
by snow’s hardliquor breath
huffing in staggers through the
winter grass cut before the storm
where dry brown leaves nest
a broken feather pulled
by djinns of the stuttering south,
homeless in the field.

The poem I wrote in my sleep
was huge
it moved the earth
it changed the world
it was a rock mountain
out of which I carved
clanging truth in heads of jackals,
ravens and goddesses
and wrote their conversations
verbatim etched in a brazen font
upon the golem’s brow
yet when I woke
in the blue crystal light

there were no words
on my pillow, only one
spent feather, ragged
from the cold.




February 2012 


Posted for   Poetics   at dVerse Poets Pub




Image: Guinea fowl feather 
By User:Ben_pcc (Some bird.) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

34 comments:

  1. dang...nice journey in this...in the opening i really like...

    flown to drown in the sleety river
    by snow’s hardliquor breath

    great descriptors...and then the dream carved in the heads of jackals and golems...smiles...it surely would have shook the world...

    perhaps though in the receiving of the feather there is as much if not more wisdom...smiles..

    love the wrap around in this hedge...

    happy saturday to yoU!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh, this is love you. Agree with Brian--wonderful descriptions, great juxtapositions that vividly depict your scene, dream, awakening. And the frame is lovely--

    Besides the ones Brian mentioned, I love the hooping along the curb and the stuttering South. And, of course, the sense of the dream epiphany is terrific. K.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. PS -- I THOUGHT I was typing LOVELY! Ha.

      My brain and fingers are increasingly out of synch. (I used to be a completely reliable typist.) Crazy. K.

      Delete
    2. I figured it was something like that. My fingers do the same thing--I think faster than I can type, and they just write what they want to, not what I tell them to sometimes. Thanks, K.

      Delete
  3. This imaginative poem sent shivers down my spine. Brilliant.

    ReplyDelete
  4. wow...what a ride...love that the poems take flight and run free instead of being pressed between some boring book pages...smiles... some of them are just born to be wild...great imagery here hedge...luved it much..

    ReplyDelete
  5. I have several times had dreams where I thought I was writing a real bonafide masterpiece, but upon waking it slipped away. Then one time, I managed to quick scribble it down and then go back to sleep. When I woke up, I eagerly reached for my notebook, and the lines were just nonsense. "Stanzas of gibberish" as Ginsberg described in "Howl." To me, that's what you've described here...the grand feeling followed by the little result.

    ReplyDelete
  6. I love love the second verse..

    The poem I wrote in my sleep
    was huge
    it moved the earth
    it changed the world
    it was a rock mountain
    out of which I carved
    clanging truth in heads of jackals,
    ravens and goddesses

    Happy Saturday to you ~

    ReplyDelete
  7. As with others, this part really spoke to me:

    The poem I wrote in my sleep
    was huge

    I've felt this so many times and tried to write down what I feel, even dreaming of writing it down, and then it slips away.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Often enough we thought what we wrote the night before was fantastic. Sometimes yes but most times not! Great write Joy!

    Hank

    ReplyDelete
  9. I just love how you wove in sublte sculpting images: chiseling, carving, etching..and the other-dimensional feel that gave us goddesses, dreams, golems, ravens and jackals. Superb.

    ReplyDelete
  10. wow what a write, poems are written in our sleep.

    ReplyDelete
  11. These dreams and the reality they intersect combine to create a tantalizing look into imagination. Your play with hard and soft, malleable dream and hard reality become reversed, pulling us into dream along with you perhaps. The message left you in the form of a feather, the shaman's wing, lets us know that we can travel there too, if we open ourselves to their possibility. I like how you bring all of these elents into play and create a piece with mystery and music!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks for getting the dichotomy of the two stanzas Charles, and the dynamic of the feather. Yours was excellent, as always.

      Delete
  12. OMG I SO adore this poem, especially the crescendoing second stanza, and the one lone feather ragged from the cold. HOL-EE COW, kiddo. Superb writing.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Sherry. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

      Delete
  13. Those Guinea Fowl feathers litter the ground over here, but each is its own perfection. I have also written poems in my sleep, but what is not captured on awaking is lost forever, along with every other ground-breaking solution one finds in sleep.
    This piece retains that dream-like distortion of reality and the grasping for shreds when the dream is done.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. How cool you have them where you are, too, Kerry. I feed five feral guinea fowl at my bird feeder with the doves and cardinals, and this is the feather I saw in my dream, and in waking hours too, of course--they tend to shed them a lot.Thanks for reading. I have one for Ella's photos going up in the morning.

      Delete
  14. Loved the imagery of the hooping hat and the sleet- signifying perhaps a change in the seasons. The exit to the dream world was such an interesting turn- and I loved how.you expressed that feeling of having something so huge in your head but being unable to capture it. And then waking- to find just the feather- maybe to me signifying unrest/change- as did the first stanza of this piece. Really nice linkage and thought process - oh - and of course- the most well crafted descriptions! Snows hard liquor breath- damn- why couldn't I have thought of this!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Stu--that's one of my favorite compliments. I enjoyed yours very much as well.

      Delete
  15. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! Chiselled from an empty hat, but then the opening lines of the second stanza told me that here was an exceptional poem. Delightful. I know the moment of the empty pillow after the excitement of the masterpiece. I guess we all do, but you have brought it to life and let it loose in the room. Marvellous!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes, I usually can get to the scratch pad when this happens, but in this case, the poem seemed so perfect and impossible to forget I was lulled into a false sense of security. When I woke up there was not one word left. ;-) Thanks for reading, Dave.

      Delete
  16. Hey, even the lil' fella walking under that hat is gone ... Which I guess tropes the trollop times still troll-wards, into a rougher, ruder time. Your dream of the second stanza mounts almost a sufficient resistance to the "hardliquor" breath and breadth of the first -- some golem, mythic faces/facets, exquisite oracles "verbatim etched in a brazen font": But indeed the single severed feather suffices, or is all we have, wing and quill and wild gorgeousness with which to tickle wit in dullard times. "Ragged from the cold," but what a simple delight. - Brendan

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks for reading, B. and glad you enjoyed. So we bring the outside in, and the inside out.

      Delete
  17. ... And yes, compression resolves, but first the dizzy ziggurats of stanzas 1-2, please. - B

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The tag compression is not about verbal compression. It refers to my poem of that title, and I've used it to tag several that have that feeling for me.

      Delete
    2. I'm kinda surprised that I haven't dreamed of writing. I dream up paintings though. Usually abstract and bold (unlike me entirely) but they too disperse and fade upon waking. I like to believe there are spirit guides or angels recording all our lost brilliance though, and we will see it all again some day.

      Delete
    3. I agree, I think it's still somewhere in our brains, or its ghost meaning or symbol is, and dreaming about it means it will come floating up some day. Good to see you, DA.

      Delete
  18. I like the shift between the stanza... and this is beautiful to me:

    flown to drown in the sleety river
    by snow’s hardliquor breath
    huffing in staggers through the
    winter grass cut before the storm

    ReplyDelete
  19. A wondeful sculpted journey... original take on the prompt...much enjoyed!

    ReplyDelete
  20. I agree - just stunning! And I do so understand the masterpiece in dreams and the empty head on waking...

    Anna :o]

    ReplyDelete
  21. I really love this, Hedge. The smallness of poem, but so dense in mass, which you embody here.

    ReplyDelete

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