Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Disarray







Disarray



Even from here, shut out
in the wheeling year's disarray,
I can feel your fear of what you know
you will never have again, even
of knowing that; I can see you place
your dead planet moonfast without revolve
cratered, axis horseshoed tight round 
your ruined heart,
that great magnet of a failing past
that sucks to it the bright shavings of your soul.

Your pale eyes shine with a torment of self
a salty torrent turned back, reverse
engineered to pantheistic rivers of
phantom flint flowers, rilling rains dammed
by the fisted hand open only to strike  
fear by day, fear by night. Your alembic
slowdrips fading physic; others' words,
wine mulled to medicine, swallowed
then vomited up, poison
in a leviathon's deathroll.

Of course a nymph the size of
a rosemary needle
could never be enough
to soothe the stomach of such a beast,
to move again
the frozen moon,
to heal or to charm with
my forget-me-not blooms,
my memoried fragrance.

~November 2012









Posted for   real toads
Wednesday Challenge
Kerry introduces the South African poet Ingrid Jonker, and asks us to write from the experiences of  personal relationship as she did in her work. I was unable to capture at all Jonker's style in this, I'm afraid.



Words and images © joyannjones
 



28 comments:

  1. Your own style shines through each stanza, Hedge, but the mood has a touch of Jonker's melancholy, the sense of things that came to an end, of times never to be reclaimed. Of course, rosemary is for remembrance, and has its own peculiar fragrance to apt to tap into memory.

    I think your opening stanza is a marvel of syntactical brilliance - you know how to turn a phrase on its ear.

    I can see you place
    your dead planet moonfast without revolve
    cratered, axis horseshoed tight round
    your ruined heart,
    that great magnet of a failing past
    that sucks to it the bright shavings of your soul.

    Phew!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you Kerry. This was such a good prompt. I tried writing in her more understated style, but just didn't feel right.

      Delete
  2. Hedge!! This part:

    "that great magnet of a failing past
    that sucks to it the bright shavings of your soul."

    It's so true...it can do that...wow, spot-on with this metaphor.

    And how self-torturous it is indeed to live in this light...you capture that tone well.

    The last portion is so softly-wooing with the scent of rosemary and the muses favorite lil' bloom.

    I love this poem, Hedge.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you Hannah. So many shades of blue--and each one has its own flower.

      Delete
  3. I so love the incorporation of the rosemary and the line "a nymph the size of a rosemary needle." Great image!

    ReplyDelete
  4. I'll have to come back as do not have adequate time to read as carefully as I should. Agree with Kerry mainly. Some great images here - and all the wordplay very powerful - the moon and horseshoe and magnets and rilling rain and needle and rosemary. I am contemplating the idea of fearing what you know your'll never have again - fearing something's loss or its re-appearance - and of course there can be that double-edged aspect to both fear and loss. (Is it "rosemary for remembrance?" Ophelia? I don't know.) k.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. "Rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray love, remember" Ophelia indeed. The fear of what you'll never have again, closely allied with the fear of knowing you'll never have it again. Twofold, because if you got it, what would happen then to your dead moon persona and rivers of carefully cultivated rain? Thanks, k.

      Delete
    2. Ouch! I still need to read a few more times, but still at work- Only would say that I've been known to hold plenty of dead planets moonfast. I was going to make a horrible joke here which I will refrain from making,since it's a serious and cool poem - k.

      Delete
    3. I shudder to even think what it may be--thanks for pitching in twice, k, and for restraining yourself in the comments. You know how to find me should you just have to share. ;_)

      Delete
    4. Well, neither pitch was very accurate as I was at work and couldn't quite focus (except to be impressed), and now I've read the prompt and the poem again, with less going on so I can follow better (and should delete silly comments.) (So sorry to waste your time and space.)

      First the prompt is terrific - the Jonkers are great - but you've done a great job too. Agh. So sad. I'm not going to posit what relationship is explored here but I do think of women of my mother's generation, and how hard it was for some--especially of a certain vivid mindset - simply because society gave so few options. It was just very difficult for some - especially if they'd gone through the war and felt somewhat important for a while. I may be taking this in a direction that just fits my experience of people. The poem is complex but very moving. k.

      Delete
  5. Your final dozen lines twisted my heart, Witch. The mulled wine into medicine and the bad result, the frozen moon, the rolling leviathan...it's full of a terrible ache, on both sides, and that's what makes it especially sad.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Not sure about the fear, Hedge
    Once all hope is gone, so is all fear. It get's replaced with a very big, very empty longing for choices gone. Jus sayin
    Great stuff, you

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Agree--but this person still has hope that he is wrong, which makes the fear bite.Living truly without hope is not in us as humans, imo--not without some serious chemical issues, anyway.

      Delete
  7. I can see you place
    your dead planet moonfast without revolve
    cratered, axis horseshoed tight round
    your ruined heart...ha i really like that...the imagery but also the symbolism in it...

    the wine to medicine to vomit...and the last two lines....they echo....

    ReplyDelete
  8. "Of course a nymph the size of a rosemary needle . . ." Perfect. Lots of great imagery here, as always!

    ReplyDelete
  9. A certain freedom in disarray. No real order or ideology. Texture,fragrance,inconspicuous flowers.
    I was touched by Jonkers words and life. Tragic. But with rays of hope. Activism through poetry.
    Trying to understand, I came across Jimi playing, Crying Blue Rain. It helped.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Scott. That is an awesome song. I tend to like the ones with lyrics and miss cuts like that. I put up an old one I like to replace the infant Ronstadt...

      Delete
    2. Geeez..unreal. Like Ingrid where they could have gone...maybe it doesn't matter..nice to have heard them.

      Delete
    3. My husband and I were talking about the Kennedy brothers this morning--yes, the might have beens always haunt, but as you say, that they were here, that they gave what they gave, that perhaps becomes more important to us because of the loss. Glad you enjoyed the Hendrix--I like that acoustic version best, though there is a manic electric one, also.

      Delete
  10. Lovely take on the prompt. I like your creative use of words.

    ReplyDelete
  11. I think you've wonderfully captured the emotions, the relationship. The style is all yours, and it is wonderful!

    ReplyDelete
  12. Starts out with a deep loss, and ends with remembrance (Rosemary is my sister's name) - but sometimes when one hangs on to memories, they make one bitter. That's what I feel here...

    ReplyDelete
  13. "Your pale eyes shine with a torment of self" I am afraid mine shone like that for some time. I feel such pain in this one...memories that have not paled with age. Beautiful work as always.

    ReplyDelete
  14. "your ruined heart,
    that great magnet of a failing past
    that sucks to it the bright shavings of your soul."

    Flailing for a blessing it wasted, for a scent it never smelled properly. SO maddening and inexplicable to the one not seen. Why? I think I will go to my grave with that perplexed sound, Why = half who, half I.

    ReplyDelete
  15. Wow! Fantastic write! The magnet sucking to it "the bright shavings of your soul"....the leviathon in its deathroll.......wickedly good writing, it hits the heart.

    ReplyDelete
  16. The poem is gorgeous as a whole. It is your last stanza that is having lasting effects on my thoughts and senses. Fear can not really be medicated, only postponed I suppose. The forget-me-not blooms turn the existential personal. so very good!

    ReplyDelete
  17. engineered to pantheistic rivers of
    phantom flint flowers

    Mmmmm.....nice!

    ReplyDelete

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